


be a part of the love club

by Nonymos



Series: bene castigat [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Art, Blindfolds, Bondage, Bucky and Sam's Permanent Cat Fight, Cages, Dungeon, F/M, Gags, Humiliation, Illustrated, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Marvel Cameos, Now resolved, Oral Sex, Rad BDSM Etiquette, Safe Sane and Consensual, Singletail Whips, St. Andrew's Cross, Steve Made Them Do It, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Wooden Horse - Freeform, a fun night out for the gang!, clint is still happy (and also kinda scared) to be here, discussions of polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2019-08-18 20:08:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16523774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nonymos/pseuds/Nonymos
Summary: Sure, Bucky's a little nervous, and a little confused that Clint's here, and a little underdressed next to Nat, and also must Sam goddamn Wilson tag along?But all of that doesn't matter. They're going to a dungeon night and Steve's right there with him. Bucky just can't wait to get started.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> WELCOME BACK to my own personal all-year round kinkfest! :') Once again, we've been BLESSED with extremely hot and NSFW art by the wonderful Riakomai. Scroll with care!

 

 

 

 

Bucky had been ready for an hour and a half. He’d spent most of it pacing restlessly around Steve’s dungeon and was now scrolling down his phone in a vague attempt to distract himself. He checked the time every ten seconds. Steve was in the kitchen doing the dishes early—for once—in an attempt to make time go faster, too.

“What time is it now?” he called out.

“Ten past eight,” Bucky answered. “They should be here any min—”

The doorbell rang, making him jump up and almost run to the door.

“It’s Clint and Nat!” he called over his shoulder.

They were ten minutes late, which balanced Natasha’s tendency to always be early and Clint’s chronic tardiness well enough. As always, she was dressed to the nines while he looked like he’d just rolled out of a dumpster on laundry day.

“Hi,” Bucky said, biting his lip and nearly vibrating out of his skin. “You guys ready?”

“No, I’m going to change,” Clint assured him a bit anxiously.

“Don’t worry, Barton, James is in no place to throw stones,” Natasha said, kissing Bucky on the cheek.

“I’m classy!” he protested.

“Yes, yes, you’re wearing dark jeans instead of regular jeans. I’m impressed.”

Bucky elected to ignore that remark and threw an arm around Clint to drag him close. “Never thought I’d end up going to a dungeon with a coworker.”

“Hey, I’m as surprised as you are. At least it’s not Stark?”

“You can say that again.” Bucky took a moment to wonder what would happen to Tony inside a dungeon. Spontaneous combustion sounded like a safe bet.

“Hi, guys!” Steve came out wiping his hands on a rag, beaming at them. “I just got a text from Sam, he’s gonna be a bit late.”

“We could leave without him,” Bucky said, full of hope.

“Bucky, he’s the one driving us.”

Natasha swatted him behind the head. “Play nice. We still have to do our briefing anyway.”

Bucky and Clint both blinked. “Briefing?”

“Oh yes,” she said with a sharp glint in her eye. “You guys are dungeon newbies, we’re briefing the hell out of you. Sit down.”

“I’ve been to a fetish party before,” Bucky mumbled, but he sat on the couch anyway.

Clint joined him, keeping his focus on Natasha. He seemed determined to learn as much as he could before they got there, like a spy headed for a foreign country. Bucky still wasn’t sure why he wanted to come at all, but he didn’t know if he could ask. When Natasha had told him Clint would be tagging along, Bucky had repeated, _“Clint?”_ and she’d just said _“Barton.”_ Like making sure Bucky had the right Clint was the point here.

Steve came out of the kitchen again, sans rag and looking excited as anything. “All right, recap. T’Challa’s Traveling Dungeon is very welcoming to new people—there’s always a no-play zone, a small staff, and no dress code. But it’s also very appreciated by veterans of the scene. I’ve been told he has a _lot_ of furniture this time around.”

“Oh fuck yeah,” Bucky said under his breath.

Clint was puzzled. “Why is that exciting?”

 _“Dungeon_ furniture, Clint,” Natasha said.

“Oh.” He blinked. “Right.”

She smiled at him, then picked up Steve’s speech. “Obviously, the cardinal rule is consent. If you want to play with someone, just ask. Always be gracious when you’re told _no_. Respect any boundary you’re given, even if it feels pointless to you.”

“And the reverse applies—set your own clear rules before a scene,” Steve added. “Among the things you can discuss, well. There’s touching, kissing, sex—what _kind_ of sex, that’s important… Dirty talking, pain, restraints… Old injuries, phobias, triggers, stuff you just don’t care for… Other people watching, other people participating…”

Bucky was grateful for that list. He could have used it on his first meeting with Steve, when he’d said he didn’t have any hard limits—a very common rookie mistake, he knew that know. Clint could certainly use a few guidelines, though Bucky still wasn’t certain he’d _need_ them.

Because hell, what was that guy gonna do in a dungeon? Even after not-dating Natasha for six months and actually-dating her for six weeks, Clint still seemed solidly vanilla. Then again, Bucky had noticed that Natasha had been using her catsuit at home a couple of times—it always dried for ages in the bathroom. So who knew what was really going on there.

He thought back to what Steve had said. _Lots of furniture. Other people watching._ He squirmed a little on his cushion, classy black jeans already beginning to feel a bit too tight.

To be strapped to a fucking machine in front of everyone—that was the kind of elaborate, luxurious, overly scripted stuff he fantasized about when he jerked off alone, when he could really get lost inside his own head, adding layers upon layers of details. To say nothing of _other people participating._ He’d masturbated a _lot_ to the idea of Steve using him as a prop for clients. Or inviting a few friends to try him out. Or loaning him out to someone for the weekend.

It tied very well into his humiliation fantasies, so he’d babbled to Steve about it once, while hopped up on endorphins and pleasure and pain. Steve being Steve, they’d discussed it very thoroughly during debrief, and hadn’t _that_ been an embarrassing talk. After a lot of false starts, Bucky had stammered that he liked the _idea_ , but wasn’t too keen on the real-life logistics. Arranging even a simple threesome would have been a whole production; and the third party wouldn’t obligingly dissolve into thin air after they were done, like the nice people in Bucky’s head.

Bucky didn’t want those complications, those doubts, those second thoughts. He definitely didn’t want Steve to shoulder them just to accommodate him.

A dungeon party, though… That wasn’t quite the same as bending everyday rules to make room for a whole other person. It was a place that was already outside everyday life. Like an R-rated Disneyland. Full of willing people that would go away when the night was done. Steve and Bucky had talked about it some more as the date approached, and agreed that if anything involving someone else was going to happen, tonight was more than ideal.

When Bucky tried to picture it, really tell himself that he was going to do it, put himself in the hands of strangers, let them beat him and fuck him and _use_ him—he still found the idea intimidating, but he wanted it more than he feared it. And Steve would be there. It was what he told himself every time he felt like chickening out. Steve would _be_ there, handling everything, making sure they were both fine. And they could just walk out if things stopped being fun. They could always stop. They knew how.

“Also,” Natasha said, snapping him out of his slightly feverish thoughts, “there are a lot of different kinks out there. You might see stuff that’ll seem weird to you. But just respect that, and look away. And never start a fight. _Right,_ Steve?”

Steve’s mouth fell open. “I’ve never started a fight in a dungeon!”

“The fact that you need to be so specific says a lot,” she mocked, “but I’ll allow it. You’ve only ever started fights in clubs.”

“It was one time!”

 _“Three_ times.”

“That’s two more than I know about,” Bucky grinned. “Anything you wanna share with the class?”

“You, quiet,” Natasha said. “We’re not done. One of the _most_ important things is never interrupt a scene. If you see people playing together and you haven’t been explicitly invited into the scene, don’t talk to them and don’t stand too close. Respect the bubble.”

Clint raised his hand. “What if we see something that looks dangerous? Or rapey? Or really _too_ weird?”

“Tell us. Or someone more experienced. Don’t step in yourself.”

“Sounds fair.”

“I think that’s all of it,” Steve said, looking at Natasha. “Right? What am I forgetting?”

The doorbell rang again.

“Oh! It’s probably Sam!” Steve said, dashing for the door. Bucky had never seen him so excited outside of a scene; he couldn’t help grinning at his enthusiasm.

“What up, party people!” Sam called out a second later. “And Barnes!”

Bucky rolled his eyes and got up to greet him, but stopped when he saw him zip open his hoodie. “Are you wearing a _white mesh shirt?”_

“And I look good in it,” Sam said. “Wait till I do my make-up.”

He ditched his track pants and hoodie to replace them with an immaculate white suit, tailored to fit, complete with white-and-gold eyeliner and lipstick. By the time he was done, he was dazzling, even here in Steve’s pastel-colored dungeon; the contrast with his skin was fantastic. And it was nothing compared to how he would look like in a dim-lit room full of people wearing dark colors. Bucky was annoyed beyond reason. Who the fuck dressed in white in a dungeon?

Natasha was changing, too; while Sam did his makeup, she enlisted Steve’s help to put on her black lace corset. Seeing Steve pull with all his strength on the laces was low-key hilarious. Her garter belt clipped onto high-heeled leather boots that laced just above the knee. Clint, who had stripped to his boxers without putting on anything else yet, was staring and obviously trying not to drool.

“What are you guys gonna wear?” Sam asked, now highlighting his cheekbones with gold.

Steve shrugged and gestured at his plain black clothes without a hint of self-consciousness. “The usual. I’m not one for dressing up.”

“Same,” Bucky said nonchalantly. “I figure the arm will draw enough attention.”

And he was probably going to end up naked, anyway. Steve _liked_ him naked.

“Y’all just know you can’t compete with this power couple,” Sam declared, lacing arms with Natasha. Together, they looked almost supernaturally beautiful. “Hey, what about you, Barton?”

“Um,” Clint said with a deer in the headlights look. “You guys look really great. I don’t know if what I brought…”

They all cheered on him (“Come on,” said Sam, “you can’t possibly do worse than Barnes!”) and he grimaced a smile. “All right, all right! Hold on a sec.”

He disappeared into the bathroom.

“Why is he hiding in there to put his clothes _on?”_ Sam wondered. “He just stripped in front of us. And then stood there for like fifteen minutes.”

Natasha waved her hand as if to say Clint Barton functioned beyond the pedestrian mind. They heard him shuffle and bang his elbow and curse in the bathroom.

“Ta-da,” he mumbled when he came back out.

He was wearing black combat boots that did _things_ to Bucky’s authority kink, black pants that hugged his ass dearly, and a black t-shirt that showed off his amazing biceps—with large, purple, sparkly block letters bedazzled on his chest: TOURIST.

Sam burst out laughing and clapped, quickly joined by the rest of them. Clint gave them a small grin. “That okay?”

“It’s perfect,” Steve giggled.

So, _not_ going to try anything kinky, Bucky noted. Or… did this mean he _was_ going to try? TOURIST. The meaning could go either way. Bucky was getting a headache trying to work this out.

“Nat, you got eyeliner and stuff?—thanks,” Clint said, catching it. “Just gonna slap on some of that and I’ll be good to go.” He glanced at Bucky and Steve. “Are you sure you guys don’t want some?”

“He’s got a _great_ eye for make-up,” Natasha put in.

“I’m good,” Bucky said. “It’s just gonna smudge.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Oh my God, that’s the whole point, Barnes. Smudged make-up is _hot.”_

“Yeah, you keep your weird fetishes to yourself.”

“Kinkshaming!” Sam called out, pointing at him. “Are you guys hearing this? I am being kinkshamed!”

Clint vanished into the bathroom again then stepped back out ten seconds later with pitch-perfect eyeliner. Bucky was so shocked he stopped mid-argument. If he’d had to pick one of his co-workers for secretly being into feminization—and being _good_ at it—he would’ve never chosen loud dumb security guard Clint Barton.

 _“Da_ yum,” Sam exclaimed.

“Told you,” Nat said smugly. Clint gave her a small dorky grin; he obviously liked it a lot when she boasted about him.

*

They all piled into Sam’s car. He was driving, of course, and Natasha sat in the front, draped in a black coat to hide her get-up. Bucky knew she’d brought a change of clothes in the fancy black leather duffle bag she carried around. Probably sweatpants, a band t-shirt and flip-flops. Steve, being the smallest, sat in the middle of the back seat, with Bucky on his left and Clint on his right. Bucky made sure to accidentally kick Sam’s seat a lot while he settled in.

“Barnes,” Sam said icily after the fourth kick.

“Just trying to grab my seat belt!” Bucky said with wide-eyed innocence. “My prosthetic isn’t that flexible, you know.” He twisted with dramatic uselessness, shoving a knee into Sam’s back. “Oh, I’m _so_ sorry. Can you move your seat up?”

_“No.”_

“Let me,” Steve said suddenly, stretching across Bucky’s lap to grab his seat belt and pulling it across his throat, drawing a harsh gasp out of him.

Sam raised an amused eyebrow in the rearview mirror, which—minor public humiliation, damn him and damn Bucky’s kinks. But Bucky didn’t have enough brain cells to get annoyed while he had Steve’s undivided attention. The rigid belt pressed tight enough that it cut off his breath, making him raise his chin. Steve was looking at him with amusement belying his faux-stern air, but he also wasn’t letting Bucky move.

“There’s more than enough room for you in the trunk if you can’t behave, Buck.”

“Okay—okay, sorry,” Bucky rasped.

Steve smirked and moved back, letting the belt reel in. Bucky fastened it without a fuss, swallowing against the red mark already fading across his throat. Dammit, now he had a car kink. Also, public humiliation, yes. Yep. Definitely.

“We’re not even there and you’re already traumatizing Barton!” Sam complained.

“Naw, it’s cool, they’re easing me in.”

Bucky rubbed his throat and remarked, “If we ever need to blackmail each other at work, we’re gonna have a lot of material after tonight.”

Clint laughed, Sam shook his head, and the car hummed to life.

This was the bad part. Bucky’s new car kink definitely did not apply to _moving_ vehicles. He sat back and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. Sam knew what he was doing, naturally, but driving in New York was never smooth, and Bucky’s accident wasn’t that old.

Steve noticed, of course, and pressed close to take his human hand. “You okay?”

Bucky nodded without opening his eyes, lacing their fingers. “Yeah, I’m good.”

Steve was silent for a second, then said, “Hey—come closer, here.”

Bucky shifted to lower himself in his seat so he could press his face against Steve’s shoulder. Steve’s fingers tangled in his hair, slowly massaging his head. It helped. The others’ easy banter helped, too. Bucky breathed in and out and even managed to relax after a while.

*

“We’re here, everyone out!”

Bucky blinked his eyes open. Steve was looking at him questioningly; Bucky answered with a smile and a kiss.

“Thanks, Stevie.”

Steve squeezed his hand. “Anytime, Buck.”

Clint was already out, standing in the parking lot with his sparkly TOURIST t-shirt, looking deeply perplexed. “You sure it’s the right place? ‘Cause… that’s an office building.”

“What were you picturing? Medieval castle?”

“I don’t know, just—an _office building?”_

“Yeah, open spaces are great for setting up temporary dungeons,” Natasha said, getting out of the car. “The rest of the building’s empty at night, so there are no neighbors to disturb with the noise…”

“Good security, big elevators to bring up furniture, often at least one empty floor, and lots of parking space for everyone,” Sam finished, stretching as he joined them outside the car. “It’s _ideal.”_

“Dude!” Clint protested. “What if something like that happened where _I_ used to work?”

“Oh, there’s no way to know,” Sam said ominously.

“We’re everywhere,” Bucky smirked.

“You guys are like the fucking Illuminati, I swear to God.”

“Oh, I like that. The Fucking Illuminati,” Natasha put in. _“That’s_ my kind of secret society.”

They pulled their bags from the trunk and headed for the building entrance. A black woman was waiting behind the glass doors and buzzed them in. She seemed to already know Sam, Steve and Natasha.

“Hey guys,” she said, hugging them one after the other. Her Kenyan accent made the words dance in Bucky’s ears. “You’ve hit just the right window. The mood’s set but there’s a lot of room left.”

“Great. We brought newbies,” Steve grinned. “Bucky, Clint, this is Nakia.”

“Hi there.” She laughed at Clint’s t-shirt and eyed Bucky’s prosthetic appreciatively, then tapped a poster taped to her counter. “Okay, so here’s the layout. We’re on the second and third floors. All the others are locked, so it’s no use trying to explore the building to steal pens and paperclips.”

They laughingly assured her they wouldn’t.

“Second floor is the no-play zone. So, obviously, no play. That includes no sex and no full nudity allowed. You can be topless, though. Even if you have boobs, we love boobs.” She grinned. “There’s a bar, two unisex bathrooms, a few places to change, a cloakroom for your stuff—that’s two dollars per bag—and even a place to take a nap if you need some peace and quiet. Okay so far?”

They all nodded. Bucky had a hard time focusing on her words. They were so close. They were almost _there._ It was so hard to believe, standing there in the quiet atrium with nothing to hint at the party taking place two floors up. It was one of the things he liked about BDSM—the invisibility. The double life. Like having a secret superhero identity.

“Third floor is where shit gets real,” Nakia said. “For hygiene reasons, we’ll need you to keep all blood play and watersports confined to the water room—you’ll know it when you see it. Always clean up after yourself; if you don’t, we can and will blacklist you. You’ll find condoms and lube everywhere, but if you ever need more, you can always ask one of the DM, like Okoye, or me.”

She turned and pointed two thumbs to the back of her black t-shirt. _DM_ indeed, in big white letters.

“What does that mean?” Clint asked.

“Dungeon Master,” Nakia grinned, making them all laugh again. “All right. I should also do the consent speech, but with Nat and Steve in the group, I’m pretty sure we got that covered. Any questions?”

They all looked at each other.

“I think we’re good to go,” Natasha said. “Eighty bucks each, was it?”

“It was.” Nakia looked up at her. “And—I’d love to see more of you later tonight.”

Natasha grinned at her. “I’ll see what I can do.”

They kissed, briefly but not very chastely. Clint looked simultaneously very awkward and hopelessly turned on. Bucky hid a smile and dug out his money.

After paying, they crowded into the elevator. Clint seemed a bit more anxious now, but it was probably just nerves; he smiled when Natasha kissed his cheek, and leaned into her, lacing an arm around her waist. Sam and Steve looked like Bucky felt, about ready to drop dead with anticipation.

The doors closed, the elevator hummed. And then the doors opened again.

*

The first impression Bucky got of the no-play zone was darkness and low music pulsing in the background, entirely like a normal club. The cloakroom was right out of the elevator; another dark-skinned woman was behind the counter, slightly older than Nakia. She introduced herself as Okoye, took their coats and bags, and eyed Clint and Sam like she hoped to find _them_ later.

They took a turn and found themselves in the middle of a big open space, strewn with couches and chairs. There was a small bar with a genial-looking white guy mixing drinks. People in various states of undress were chatting around the room, maybe two dozens of them. A lot of fetishists had gone all out in their outfits. Three steps in, Natasha was stopped by old friends and admirers; four steps in, it was Sam’s and Steve’s turn. The kink scene was a tightly-knit community.

Bucky grabbed Clint’s shoulder. “C’mon, let’s leave these rockstars to it and get a drink for now.”

“Yeah. Sounds good.” Clint was looking around at the people in leather and black lace. He definitely seemed nervous now, and obviously trying to hide it as he walked up to the bar, staying close to Bucky. “No big deal, right? So far it’s like an emo convention.”

“Hi guys, I’m Scott,” said the bartender. “What can I getcha?”

“Got lemonade?” Bucky asked, perching on a stool.

Clint wrinkled his nose. “Lemonade?”

“Yeah, man. Can’t get hammered if I’m gonna play.”

“Oh. Right.”

Bucky sensed an opening. “What about you? Planning on doing anything tonight?”

Clint looked like he’d expected that question. He rubbed the back of his head, which called Bucky’s attention to his shoulders and arms again. Fuck, he really had _amazing_ biceps.

Bucky allowed himself a spot of daydream—messing around with Clint could’ve been… really nice. But his vague fantasy of subbing for him couldn’t quite form itself. Clint had never given off a vibe that made Bucky genuinely consider something with him. Definitely too vanilla. Not to mention too straight.

Clint was still seeking his words; after a few false starts, he finally got his sentence into gear. “The whole BDSM thing isn’t… I mean, I’m wearing that tourist shirt for a reason. Guess I just—I wanted to see for myself, instead of just hearing about everything you guys do. Like going to the zoo, you know.” He blinked. “Wait—is that rude? Shit, I think it’s super rude.”

“Nah, some people here would _love_ that comparison,” Bucky answered with a grin.

Clint pulled a face, then laughed. He ordered a ginger ale, which Bucky couldn’t help noticing. So he _was_ keeping that door open. Maybe.

Of course, Clint noticed him noticing, and shrugged awkwardly.

“I mean, we talked it out with Nat. We agreed it was okay to—um, fool around. At least tonight. Just in case we see someone we like, you know.”

That answered Bucky’s question, more or less. A chilly lemonade was handed to him; Clint got his glass, too, and frowned at it.

“I, um,” he said. “I cheated on my last girlfriend one time.”

Bucky carefully said nothing, just waited for him to go on.

“Didn’t—didn’t go over well. Biggest regret of my life. For a buncha reasons.” He cleared his throat. “But tonight, if I want to sleep with someone else, I can just… go ahead and do it.” He looked up from his glass, uncertain. “On one hand, it takes off a lot of pressure, you know? But on the other hand, I keep asking myself—isn’t that… too easy? I don’t know, isn’t that—cheap?” He exhaled. “I’m not sure I’m saying this right…”

“No, I get what you mean.” This wasn’t Bucky’s area of expertise, but there was one thing he knew from experience. “I’m assuming it took you guys a while to talk it out?”

Clint snorted softly. “Yeah, Tasha’s pretty thorough.”

“And here you are still worrying about it, rehashing stuff with me, trying to figure it out. Communication is not _easy._ And an open relationship isn’t lazy. It’s just… a different way not to cheat.”

“Yeah.” Clint gave him a lopsided smile. “Yeah, I guess. You’re not too dumb today, Barnes.”

“It’s the lack of beer,” Bucky smirked.

“Must be it.” Clint looked up at Natasha who had ditched her black coat and stood, splendid, in the middle of a small crowd of acquaintances and admirers. _“Look_ at her. I don’t even know why she… I mean, you said it, she’s like a rockstar here. And me… I’m just happy to be here, you know? But sometimes I’m not sure what I bring to the table.”

“Clint, I’ve never known her to date _anyone_ before you came along.” Bucky waited for Clint to look at him. “I’m not in her head, so I couldn’t tell you what it is she sees in you, but I know for sure it’s there.”

Clint smiled again and considered his glass.

“It feels strange,” he said at last, “diving into this world all of a sudden, where so many rules are different, and thinking— _wow, has it always been there?”_

“I can imagine.”

“It’s just a whole other way to live. And—most of it isn’t for me, no offense. But some things are. And… it’s freeing. I never knew.” Clint unconsciously touched his eyes, glossy with eyeliner. “You guys genuinely seem like you don’t care what anyone does.”

Bucky shrugged. Far as he could tell, the BDSM community was still that: a community, comprised of people who enjoyed similar things along a wide-ranging spectrum, but whose values did not always match. It wasn’t immune to judgment and gossip and assholes. And people who took advantage of tolerance. And straight-up predators. But it was the world he belonged in, and he loved it, warts and all.

“Yeah, we’re doing pretty well,” was all he said, before raising his lemonade with a grin. “Here’s to you doing just as good.”

They clinked their glasses just as Steve finally untangled himself from his friends and came to wrap his arm around Bucky’s waist. “Hey, Buck. Sorry I made you wait.” His nails dug through his shirt. “Wanna go take a look at that other floor?”

Bucky finished his glass in one go, sloshing some of it on himself in his excitement. “Barton, you good to stay here?”

“Yeah, I’ll just wait for Nat,” he smiled. “You guys go have fun.”

Bucky threw him a last grin over his shoulder, then took Steve’s hand and let him lead the way towards the elevator. His heart seemed to beat faster with every step.

 

*

 

Steve pulled him down for a scorching kiss before the doors even closed. He bit Bucky’s lower lip and grabbed his crotch, squeezing just short of pain.

“You’re hard,” Steve said.

Bucky nodded, eyes closed, losing his breath already. Steve had backed him into the corner of the elevator; his grip was tight enough that Bucky didn’t dare move. He could only wait like he always did, at Steve’s entire disposal.

God, he was sinking hard and fast already.

“You wanna be fucked tonight, Bucky?”

“Yeah,” Bucky whispered.

Steve tightened his grip. “Any way in particular?”

What Bucky really wanted was for Steve to decide for him. Just tell him _we’re getting you on a fucking machine_ or _I’m going to do you in front of everyone_ or _These three guys over there are going to beat you up,_ and Bucky would have to comply whether he liked it or not. But this, he knew—he’d learned—was a fantasy that could never come true. He needed to get involved at least a little bit, give some pointers, make sure Steve never had to doubt his own actions. Take care of Steve, like Steve took care of him.

“I think I’d—” Bucky made himself reopen his eyes. _Just say it. One word after the other._ “Would you like. Getting. Someone else. Involved? Like we said.”

Steve gave him a long calculating look. “Yes, I would. But I can tell you have something more specific in mind, Buck. Wanna share?”

Bucky swallowed. The words wouldn’t come out.

“I know it’s hard to say out loud.” Steve reached up to pull at Bucky’s long hair, taking a firm hold at the roots. “You’re gonna have to do it anyway.”

It was easier while in pain—like Steve was making him do it. Bucky stared at the silver ceiling.

“I want to be—given away.”

“Given away,” Steve repeated slowly.

“To someone you picked. I think—yeah. Given away. Used by—someone—while you watch.”

“Doable,” Steve said, consideringly. “Humiliation?”

 _“Yes,”_ Bucky exhaled with relief. “God, _yes._ But—I’m kinda nervous about it. It’s—like I told you, I’m… I’m not completely sure I’ll enjoy that in real life.”

Steve pulled him down for another kiss, which Bucky was immensely grateful for. It felt like a reward for spelling things out.

“Now I have something to build from,” Steve said with one of his special smiles. He always looked so genuinely happy thinking up evil stuff to do to Bucky. “We can take a look around first while I think about it. Whaddaya say?”

"That sounds perfect.”

“Well then,” Steve said, and finally pressed the elevator button.

 

*

 

When the doors opened again thirty seconds later, Bucky instantly knew the atmosphere was different here.

For one, it was much darker than the no-play zone. They’d come from a wide open space, relatively well-lit; but the dungeon floor opened on a narrow corridor, bathed in black light that lit up the white trim on Bucky’s shirt. Bucky spared a brief thought for Sam—the asshole was going to go nova in here.

The noise was different, too; it wasn’t chatter and laughter, but a velvety silence made of breathing, moaning, and people crying out more sharply once in a while. The partitions crowded close to each other; they didn’t quite reach the ceiling, but it was dark enough that it didn’t matter. Nakia, Okoye and all the other DMs must have had a blast arranging them into a labyrinth.

They stepped away from the elevator and took a turn, immediately encountering two people doing rope on a mat along the hallway. It certainly was a sweet spot if you wanted to be seen by everyone. The top was using white ropes to make the most of the black lighting, and he’d half-suspended his partner from a glinting hook in the ceiling, which had obviously been recently installed. The effect was mesmerizing, like a fly caught in a web. Steve and Bucky stared for a little while, tightly holding hands. Then Steve pulled and Bucky followed down the hallway. His heart was pounding in his ears.

There was a huge map taped to the wall, white lines on black paper, easily decipherable. If it was to be believed, the Traveling Dungeon was divided in a multitude of tiny rooms, complete with four bigger ones linked by the main corridor.

“Let’s go exploring,” Steve whispered.

Still holding his hand, Bucky followed him to the first big room, ducked into the doorless entrance—and froze.

There was a St-Andrew’s cross against the wall, which almost made his mouth _water._ It was made of brushed stainless steel—how much could that thing cost? And _weigh?_ Fucking Christ. A breeding bench occupied the other corner of the room, along with two couches for people to sit in and watch. A selection of leather whips, paddles, canes and floggers adorned the far wall. Even Steve didn’t have that much _stuff._

The light here was normal, and Bucky could easily read the huge block letters stenciled on the wall: IMPACT ROOM.

“God,” he said hoarsely. “I want to stay here all night.”

“You’d look amazing spread out on that,” Steve answered in kind, staring at the St-Andrew’s cross. If the nails he kept dragging across Bucky’s palm were any indication, he was rearing to go, too. “But we should probably see everything first, right?”

“Yeah,” Bucky admitted regretfully. The room was empty, save for a couple making out on a narrow couch. The woman was wearing only a corset, and the man seemed fully naked. Bucky remembered the one other fetish party he’d attended; watching people fuck right in front of him had been surprisingly less embarrassing than he’d expected. It had been like… porn on a stage, safely held behind a fourth wall. He felt that same distance now, watching the man dig his nails into the woman’s thighs.

Would someone like Clint Barton feel at ease, too? What would he think of this room, so obviously designed for pain? Of the people in here, what they were doing?

Questions for the end of the night, probably.

“Okay, let’s go,” Bucky said, pulling himself out of his own fascination.

They moved down the hallway past three or four little rooms. All of them had a laminated paper disk hanging on the door. Steve stopped to look at one and laughed. “Oh, that’s great. Look.”

The disk could be rotated through four different settings: VACANT, DO NOT DISTURB, ONLOOKERS WELCOME, PARTICIPANTS WELCOME. As this one was marked VACANT, they took a peek inside. A bed and various sort of condoms, dental dams, flavored lube and latex gloves.

They walked towards the next big room and Bucky’s hand tightened around Steve’s. WATER ROOM. It was entirely covered in plastic, separated in cubicles that could be shut like shower stalls. Two of them were closed, also adorned with laminated paper disks, one of them encouraging onlookers to take a peek.

Blood play and watersports, Nakia had said.

“I don’t think that’s for us,” Steve said, then looked up at him. “Right?”

“Too right,” Bucky approved. “Let’s move on.”

So they did, working their way through the maze of little rooms. The third big one was aptly named SEX ROOM. There was a glory hole cabin, a fucking machine, a sybian, two gynecologic chairs, a fantastic array of dildos and vibrators, and almost a dozen people enthusiastically fucking on every surface available—old, young, fat, thin, mostly heterosexual couples or threesomes, a few lesbians, and one gay couple making out in the background. Bucky was happy for them all, but even though it didn’t embarrass him, watching people fuck wasn’t really his thing. Especially when it was all this vanilla.

The last room was named TORTURE ROOM.

There were stocks in a corner, a table with leather straps, and a wooden horse in the middle of the room. Bucky spotted a box with an electric apparatus—it made him shiver—then another with an array of gleaming urethral sounds, complete with a bottle of disinfectant. Cruel-looking clamps, Wartenberg wheels and chastity devices glistened on a table. In the corner sat an honest-to-god iron cage, which for some reason made Bucky so hard he saw stars.

Steve noticed and squeezed him again through his jeans. “You like that?”

“Yeah, I…” Bucky’s gaze strayed to the table. The straps. The gleaming tools. He was having trouble breathing. “Fuck. Yeah. Here.” He closed his eyes to focus. “All this stuff, I—who the hell _is_ T’Challa?”

“The richest Dom in the world,” Steve grinned. “When I heard he was coming back on tour in America, I knew I had to take you there.”

There was a silence while he contemplated things. Bucky was too aroused to think anymore. He knew he was teetering on the edge of a great unknown abyss.

“Okay,” Steve said quietly. “Get on your knees.”

Bucky’s legs folded under him. He’d never slipped into submission so fast. He was ready for anything to be done to him. The night was gaping wide open.

“I’m going to strap you over the horse,” Steve said conversationally. “And bring someone to fuck you. Is that what you want?”

“Yes,” Bucky rasped.

“I’ll make sure he’ll use a condom. I’ll make sure he knows I’m in charge.” His fingers wound themselves in Bucky’s hair and pulled. “I’ll make sure he hurts you, Buck. I’ll make sure you can’t escape.”

Bucky nodded, closing his eyes, pressing his face against Steve’s thigh.

“That’s what you want,” Steve said again, low, petting his hair. “Right?”

Another nod; then Bucky winced when Steve pulled at his hair again.

“Look at me, Bucky.” He met his eyes. “I’m going to put you in one of these cages while I’m gone.”

Bucky felt himself leak in his underwear. “You’re—you’re going to lock me in?”

“I can’t leave you locked somewhere alone, no. But I’m gonna close the door and you’re not allowed to get out.” Steve released him. “Take off your clothes and crawl in.”

Bucky stripped in a daze. The air felt cool on his skin, probably because he was running so hot. Steve collected his clothes and folded them in his bag. Bucky was left naked in this strange, dark, whispering place, sitting on the floor, entirely vulnerable.

Steve got out a plug from his bag.

“You’ve already cleaned up, right?” he said, knowing full well Bucky had.

This was the beginning of the scene, the beginning of Bucky’s humiliation, and Bucky was scared but it was okay. It was stage fright. And he trusted Steve to his core. So he nodded, wordless, and got on all fours, and winced when Steve worked the plug inside of him after a single squirt of lube.

“There,” Steve said, with a firm slap into the base of the plug, making Bucky flinch. “You know why I’m doing this, right?”

Bucky nodded.

“I want you to say it out loud, Bucky.”

Bucky shook his head. “Can’t,” he managed. “I’m.”

“All right.” Steve crouched next to him. “Then I’m going to say it. Make sure we’re writing the same story here.”

Bucky nodded with intense relief.

“I’m plugging you up so you’ll be open for whoever I bring back,” Steve whispered in his ear. “So you’d better take this opportunity to relax. I won’t pick anyone that’s the patient type.”

Bucky shivered. It was fiction—at this point it was still fiction, because Steve still hadn’t picked anyone. Most of it would be happening in Bucky’s head anyway, and the thought reassured him. The way Steve had just said it. Writing a story, the two of them. Circumstantial humiliation meant he could have almost as much control over it as if it was a complete fantasy. Except for all the parts that would be real.

Steve got back up, pushing on the back of Bucky’s head. “Now get in.”

Bucky did; the cage was small enough he had to curl up, bend his head, feel the cold bars on his back. Sitting naked on the bare floor, he could feel the plug going further up his ass, and he saw the table from a low angle, with the straps hanging down. The wooden horse, with leather and metal restraints. The electrodes and wires in their boxes, the clamps and sounds gleaming in the faint light. The stocks.

Steve closed the door. Bucky was caged now; he could only watch the room, knowing it was made for torture, knowing he would be the victim soon, able only to wait, naked and helpless.

“Don’t touch yourself, Bucky. Don’t take out the plug. Don’t get out of the cage.”

“Won’t,” Bucky managed.

“Okay.” Steve took a step back. “Five minutes.”

He left. Bucky closed his eyes and exhaled. This was happening, now: he was waiting for a stranger to come and fuck him.

He stretched his limbs just enough to feel the iron bars of the cage all around him. _I’m locked up. I’m locked up and they’re going to pull me out and bend me over and hold me down and…_ The fantasy wrote itself, and to know that most of it would be _real,_ would be physically happening—it made him harder than ever. The stage fright was still there, but he trusted Steve, and more importantly, he trusted himself to speak up if anything felt wrong. He had control. He could make it stop if we wanted.

He was so engrossed in imagining what might happen—how the stranger would look—that he was taken off guard when Steve came back.

“All good?”

Bucky nodded, feeling dizzy. Steve opened the cage’s door and gave a light kick into the bars. “Get out.”

Bucky crawled out, limbs already sore, then inhaled sharply when Steve grabbed his hair. “Stay still.”

He was holding a padded leather mask. Bucky was shocked—so much he almost spoke out in protest. He wouldn’t even get to _see_ who it was?

But past the first moment of surprise, he decided not to say anything. He was there to be used, not to participate. This wasn’t a tailor-made fantasy straight out of his own mind. This was his Dom’s scenario for him, and he had to submit.

The blindfold came over his eyes. Steve buckled it tight; then something else clinked close to Bucky’s head.

Steve’s voice rose again. “I’m going to give you something to signal if something’s wrong. You can also shake your head very hard, as usual. Open your mouth.”

Bucky did, and went still in surprise—he’d expected a ball-gag or a spider-gag, but it was a rubber bit, huge and almost clumsy, slipping out of his mouth until it was fitted with complex straps over his whole head, tightening it into place.

He imagined how it must look on him, complete with the big padded blindfold, and shuddered. Steve may not be a fetishist, but he knew how to play on symbolism to achieve the desired effect. He was turning Bucky into nothing but a warm body.

“There.” He dug the point of his shoe into Bucky’s thigh, hard. “Kneel up.”

More straps, more leather—a complex harness this time, almost a straitjacket, hugging Bucky’s upper body to bind his arms and hands tight in his back. He was breathing faster, and his heart was beating violently in his chest. It was more than restraints; it was presentation for whoever would use him.

Bucky wasn’t surprised to feel bindings around his cock next, but he whimpered all the same. Steve probably hadn’t found a harness for this part of him, but what he was using instead was much worse—it was coconut rope, thin and prickly just like the fruit it was named for. It tightened around Bucky's cock; he bit hard into the gag.

“You with me?” Steve waited for his nod. “All right. Time for you to bend over.”

He guided Bucky into straddling the wooden horse, then making him lie on his stomach along the length of it. It was nothing more than a triangle made of two large wooden planks, like the roof of a cartoon house. The padding on top could be taken away so the cruel angle would dig into the victim’s body, but Steve didn’t remove it—this would have been a whole other scene. Bucky was meant to _last_ on that thing.

But not fall asleep. The horse was just high enough that Bucky’s feet couldn’t touch the ground, and wide enough that his legs were uncomfortably spread—there were cuffs for his ankles, to keep him in place. Steve buckled more leather straps over Bucky’s back and waist so he couldn’t move at all. Bucky had never been so strictly bound to anything, certainly not while already harnessed, blind and gagged.

He could feel his heart pulsing in his cock.

“All good, pal?” Steve asked. He never sounded more casual than when he was putting Bucky through the wringer.

Bucky wished he could have told him how perfectly, desperately good he was, but he settled for some emphatic nodding. He was throbbing around the plug in his ass, too. He wiggled for a second then struggled in earnest, pulling at the straps with all his strength, metal arm whirring, breath coming in short huffs. He couldn’t move at all.

“Here.” Steve slipped something jingling and heavy in his human hand. It felt like a small metallic ball. “That’s your safeword. If you let it fall, it’s gonna make a lot of noise. Try it?”

Bucky opened his fingers and the ball fell loudly onto the floor, jingling all the while. He made a thumbs-up, which earned him a squeeze on the shoulder before Steve put the ball back in his hand. Bucky squeezed it tight, took a deep breath, and let his head rest on the padding. His whole body was shaking. He was going to pass out from arousal.

“We’re almost ready, just a minute,” Steve called to someone.

Bucky’s breath hitched, adrenaline flooding him all over again. Fuck, it was real.

It was happening now. It was really happening. He was going to be unplugged and feel someone else’s hands on him and someone else’s cock inside him. He clenched his teeth around the bit and tensed against his restraints again, just because he could. There was no escape, and it scared the hell out of him and it turned him on so _much._

“Now, Bucky,” Steve said quietly, grabbing Bucky’s head straps to tug his head back, pulling the bit deeper into his mouth, which _hurt_. “I’m going to tell you a few things about who’s out there waiting to come in.”

Bucky shivered, keeping very still, neck uncomfortably arched back. He wanted it so much. He wanted it to start, and at the same time he couldn’t believe it would ever really start, almost like he was imagining this whole thing after all. He felt like he’d been waiting for years. He felt like it was all happening at once.

“I didn’t pick a stranger, Bucky,” Steve said. “It’s Sam.”

Bucky froze.

Sam?

_Sam?_

Of all people, Sam fucking Wilson? No, he couldn’t—if Sam saw him like this, he’d never let Bucky hear the end of it, it would be so—

Bucky exhaled shakily.

It would be so _humiliating._

He flashed back to that moment in the car. Steve strangling him with the belt; Sam raising an amused eyebrow in the rearview mirror.

That asshole was always trying to get the upper hand, right? So to give him Bucky bound and gagged to fuck—Christ. It was almost like a logical conclusion. Bucky had asked for some humiliation, hadn’t he? Of course Steve would deliver, master goddamn strategist of sadism that he was.  

And yet… it wouldn’t be for real. Not all the way. Bucky had to admit it, now that the first moment of shock was gone. Sam wasn’t—he wasn’t a _bully._ And he wasn’t a creep. And he definitely wasn’t interested in romantic entanglements.

Steve’s idea was still a shock, to say the least. Bucky tried to imagine it. Sam Wilson fucking him. _Sam Wilson_ , fucking _him,_ for real _._ While Bucky was bound so tight he couldn’t move an inch, couldn’t complain or protest, couldn’t answer his teasing, could only twist and struggle helplessly, and weep with rage, and clench his jaw while Sam used him—

Hell.

His body had already decided—his cock strained painfully to get harder in its prison of abrasive rope. His mind was still on the fence, in a last ditch effort at something resembling pride.

“I can take off the gag if you want to talk it out,” Steve said quietly. “Or I can go pick someone else. Or we can call the whole thing off. But this was my first idea and I thought… maybe you’d like it.”

And to hear those other options was what finally brought acceptance into Bucky’s mind.

He relaxed and rested his head on the padding, resigning himself to his fate, brought on by his own stupid fantasies and stupid arousal and how much he stupid wanted this. He certainly didn’t want to call the whole thing off. But—he realized it, now that he was faced with that choice: he didn’t want Steve to go get an actual complete stranger, either. He didn’t want to get fucked by someone he didn’t know, not even knowing what they would get out of it. Not knowing what kind of person they were outside of the scene. Not knowing what story _they_ would be writing in their head.

Sam made it less scary. While he might enjoy this a _tad_ too much, Bucky knew for certain he wasn’t just a piece of meat to him, not in the way that counted, after the scene, out of the dungeon. So he took a deep breath, and nodded.

“You’re nodding. You’re giving me the green light on this?”

Bucky nodded again.

Steve’s voice went even quieter, and there was a smile in it. “Yeah? That’s good news. I think Sam wants to fuck you very, _very_ much.”

And then he moved away from Bucky.

“You can come in, Wilson.”

Bucky’s senses seemed to sharpen tenfold when Sam walked into the room.

He saw it in his mind’s eye, ten different visions of the same scene. He heard his breath of surprise and imagined himself in his place, imagined finding Sam naked and strictly bound to an instrument of torture, with the plug shining in his ass, blind and gagged, so completely vulnerable—this was him, this was what Sam was seeing right now, and Bucky felt it burn in his chest, the _shame,_ the sheer goddamn embarrassment, and his cock twitched against the leather padding.

Sam sounded much less cocksure than he usually was. “That’s… fuck.”

Bucky was breathing hard. He heard—he _felt—_ Sam get closer. “Can I…” He sounded hoarse. “Is it okay to touch?”

Bucky waited for Steve to allow it, then realized he was the one being asked. It miffed him to have to consent himself—he’d much rather pretend he didn’t have any choice. But he knew it was a very dumb line of thinking and nodded jerkily.

Sam rested a hand on his bare ass, rubbing a thumb up the curve, and Bucky felt his touch like his hand was on fire.

“He’s going to struggle,” Steve said, still casual as all hell, driving Bucky insane with arousal, “and protest, and probably cry. But as long as he doesn’t let go of his ball, you just keep going, Sam.”

This must be why Steve had chosen him, because he already knew he could trust Sam with someone he was handling. Bucky breathed out. The last of his fear was evaporating, leaving only the insane vibration of his arousal, of how much he wanted it to _start_ already _._ Sam was going to fuck him, and Bucky’s brain still rebelled against that thought, and he fucking _loved_ to feel it rebel, because it made the whole scene so goddamn _real._

“All right, places, Wilson. And Bucky—Sam’s going to hurt you real bad. You just make peace with that and try to relax.”

Bucky felt Sam’s hands settle on his hips, on both sides.

“Okay, Barnes.” Sam exhaled shakily. “Let’s take you for a ride.”

Bucky wiggled and fought to express that he may be consenting to this, but he was still indignant about the whole thing. Sam didn’t miss it, and chuckled.

“Oh, you’re not happy about that, huh?” He was beginning to get in the game. Find the story, follow it. “Can’t believe I’ve got you right here and there’s not a goddamn thing you can do about it.”

He worked his fingers around the base of the plug.

 _Fuck,_ Bucky thought, and went very still, panting through his nose.

Sam began to pull out the toy. He didn’t even say anything more—that was the worst part, being connected to him only by this drawn-out stretch, knowing he could _see_ Bucky’s rim working to keep the huge plug inside, until finally it popped out and Bucky couldn’t help flinching. Under the mask, his eyes were already burning with shame; his breathing had gone fast and shallow.

“Well, that looks loose.” A finger went into him. Bucky could have come on the spot. He was leaking against the padding, feeling the slick wet warmth against his own stomach.

“How is he?” It was Steve asking this, so detached it made it all amazingly worse.

“Fuckable, I guess.”

The humiliation pulsed in Bucky’s groin. His heart was pounding; tears kept burning his eyes. The assholes were making him wait. Taking their time. And why not? He was strapped down. He wasn’t going anywhere. He couldn’t even _speak._

“Told you Rogers was too much for you to handle,” Sam said quietly. “You never listen to me and look where that got you.”

Yeah—Bucky had never imagined he would go this far with Steve, or indeed with anyone. But he was at a dungeon night, in the middle of a pretty elaborate scene, and he felt good, he felt on top of things, thoroughly enjoying himself underneath the chaotic layer of anger and shame and desperate arousal. He had control. He wanted this. He wanted it to keep going.

As if on cue, there was the unmistakable noise of a condom foil being ripped open.

“This is happening, Buck.” Steve’s nails went sharp in Bucky’s scalp. “You might even enjoy yourself if we let you.”

Bucky pushed and strained, just to feel the straps digging in. Sam sounded amused by his efforts. “Sorry, Barnes, you’re not going anywhere.”

“Take a deep breath, Bucky,” Steve said, idly. “He’s bigger than me.”

Bucky felt Sam line up, and tensed despite himself. God, that _was_ big. He knew it felt bigger than it probably was, but it still stole his breath. He huffed through his nose, grinded his teeth into the rubber bit, and moaned out loud when Sam’s cockhead forcefully popped in.

The rest of it wasn’t any easier. By then Bucky knew his own body pretty well, and Steve knew it, too; they’d stretched his limits when it came to how little lube and how much brutality he could handle. At Steve’s instructions, Sam went all _in,_ leaving Bucky no time to catch his breath. God, that was a _lot—_ he saw stars for a white-hot moment, felt the sudden searing pain of a brutal stretch, and pulled against his restraints with a moan that already sounded like a sob.

“Mm.” Sam’s nails dug into Bucky’s ass, hard enough he felt them like points of fire. “Crossing that off my bucket list, Barnes.”

It made Bucky wonder, through a haze of pain—Steve had thought that too, that maybe there was some unresolved tension between them— _you only talk to Sam,_ and Bucky had answered _because he gets on my nerves!_ and that was true, Sam did get on his nerves; yet it couldn’t be as deeply true as he thought, otherwise he wouldn’t have allowed this, now. And Steve—maybe he’d wanted to see it play out, too. Exorcise it.

Sam began to thrust, slowly, which had Bucky struggling and pleading around the bit, because it fucking _hurt—_ and he could beg without risking them to stop. Fuck, it was big, it was all he could feel, like it was taking all the space inside his body. Sam Wilson. _Sam Wilson._ And Steve watching it happen. Giving him away.

Steve’s hand was firm in Bucky’s hair; it brought him back in line every time he tried to jerk his head away.

“You know how good you look like this?” Sam went on, fucking him at a harsher pace that pushed more moans out of Bucky. He wasn’t doing it like Steve, wasn’t doing it the way Bucky liked best, and it reinforced the fact that this was someone else, using his body for their own pleasure. “The gag’s the best part. You’re at your best when you shut the hell up.”

Bucky couldn’t control the sounds he made anymore, because Sam was really fucking him in earnest now, giving him a goddamn workout—it was a _lot,_ so much pain and so much pleasure they met in the middle in some kind of maddening feeling too big to have a name; and Bucky was fighting against his restraints without any intention behind it now, just a desperate struggle since he was allowed to struggle, since he could lose himself in the scene. He could fight as much as he needed; he only had to worry about not passing the fuck out.

“And who knew you could rock a blindfold like that?” Sam said, audibly breathless now, gripping Bucky’s hips with both hands to give his thrusts more power. “No more talkin’, no more glarin’. Hell, I almost _like_ you that way. Steve should keep you gagged and blind all—the—fucking— _time,”_ he finished, punctuating each word with a snap of his hips.

Bucky lost himself to the feeling, going limp on the horse, waiting for Sam to use him to the last; it felt like it lasted for years, the sensation still riding the edge of unbearable, until suddenly the wave crested—it was going to happen, Bucky knew it, Bucky could feel it, and he screwed his eyes shut under the padded blindfold—he felt Sam’s hands clenching convulsively, felt his movements become more hurried and erratic, felt Steve’s hand clench up so tight in his hair it made him tear up, and at the last moment he thought— _he’s going to come inside of me, in front of Steve—a_ nd Sam went still, shuddering, coming deep inside Bucky’s ass.

Bucky had stopped expecting his own tears, so he was surprised to feel them well up just as Sam slowed down and stopped moving. Somehow the shame reached its peak now that it was over; there wasn’t anything left to distract him from it. He was shaking, choking, gasping for breath around the gag, tears wetting the soft padding underneath the mask.

“You mind staying in him for a while, Sam?” Steve asked, still distant and casual. Like he was looking at his phone, maybe, while Bucky was getting reamed within an inch of his life.

“Fuck,” Sam exhaled. “Don’t mind at all.”

Steve’s hands on him, on his hair, at his neck. He unbuckled Bucky’s bit. A second later, he replaced it with a dental surgery gag, digging in Bucky’s tongue and palate to keep his mouth open. It pinched for a second, then Bucky winced in that particular way that meant _hang on, something’s wrong_ —and Steve saw it, and shifted it, and then it was fine. It was perfect.

The metal was so cold.

The next second, Steve’s cock pushed into his mouth. Bucky was taken off-guard; more tears seeped from under his mask. Sam was still milking himself in his ass, taking his sweet time, giving little thrusts while Steve used Bucky’s front, his grip tight on his hair, his other hand firm under his jaw. Bucky’s ass was sore, and his bound cock was torture, and his jaw ached. He was in goddamn fucking heaven.

He wished they’d whipped him during. He wished they’d tortured him out of his mind. He wanted them to do anything and everything they wanted. He was so ready. It was so good. _Anything you want._ The deep waters. _Anything, anything, anything,_ the delirious mantra taking up all the space in his brain.

Steve pulled out after a while to let Bucky gasp for air, drooling out of the gag. And then he didn’t push back in. Steve hadn’t even done this so he’d come—he’d just done this to humiliate Bucky a bit further, to make him feel two cocks in him at once. _Please, please, please,_ a long feverish string in his mind, _anything, anything you want, oh please—_

“Okay, Sam, I think he’s had enough.”

Sam slipped out, and the lube and sweat felt like come, leaving Bucky empty, gaping, twitching. He was so far down he couldn’t care; just hoped they’d do more. He could have gone the rest of the night. He could have gone on forever. Suffered through anything.

Steve popped the straps holding Bucky down, then uncuffed his ankles. “Get up.”

Bucky was so hard it hurt now, and his legs felt like jelly, and the wooden horse was impossible to negotiate on the way down with his arms bound. He struggled for a few seconds; then Sam came behind him and grabbed him around the waist to physically pull him off it. Manhandling was one thing Steve couldn’t do to Bucky, and the novelty of it fucked with Bucky’s mind even more. Just getting moved around like a puppet. _Anything. Please. Anything._ He couldn’t wait for what they were going to do to him next. He was shaking so much.

He was brought down none too gently and pushed to his knees.

“So, Sam,” Steve said. “How was he?”

Sam’s fingers—rougher than Steve’s—twisted his nipple hard. Bucky leaned into the pain with delirious gratitude. _More,_ he wanted to beg, _more, more, more—_

“Eh, okay, I guess.” Sam twisted his other nipple. “Looks like he cried.”

“He does that.” Something brushed Bucky’s throbbing cock, making him moan desperately around the dental gag. His mouth was held so severely open, his face wet with tears and drool. “Do you wanna make him come?”

 _Oh God,_ Bucky thought dizzily.

 _“Do_ I, now.” Sam sounded like he was speaking from very high up above Bucky’s kneeling form. “I really wanna say no. You know? I wanna put the plug back in, maybe add some clamps. Draw dotted lines up his cock with those pinwheels.”

Bucky struggled not to make a noise, because of course Sam was fucking _trying_ to get a rise out of him, but his breathing still came out like a sob. Sam twisted his nipple again, even harder.

“Bu-ut, I also really wanna see him come,” he said with a reluctant smile in his voice. “Wanna see his face when we finish him up. So,” he sighed dramatically, “I guess that’s a yes.”

“All right.” There was a warm grin in Steve’s voice, and something primal unfurled inside Bucky, some pathetic instinct for comfort washing over him. He could take so much more pain, but he didn’t have to. Maybe he’d earned his reward already. This was the voice of home, the voice that meant his torment wouldn’t last forever. The voice that meant he was going to be taken care of.

He was still holding the jingling ball so hard he was hurting his hand. He didn’t dare relax his grip, for fear it would escape his slippery fingers.

“Your turn to watch, Sam,” Steve said.

“Don’t mind if I do.” Expensive couch cushions whoofed under Sam’s weight.

Bucky stayed kneeling, holding himself very straight. Steve slipped the slack of the coconut rope out the harness to let his cock spring free from his belly, still tightly bound otherwise.

“You want to come, Bucky?”

Bucky nodded, desperate. He would have said yes to anything Steve asked anyway.

“Like this?” Steve wrapped a hand around his cock, abrasive rope and all, and began jerking him off. Bucky tried to stand it for a hot second, but even though his mind felt like it could have handled anything on earth, his body had different ideas; he was already on sensory overload, and the pain was so intense it sent him into a panic. He didn’t let go of the ball, but he shook his head hard.

“No,” Steve acknowledged while Bucky gasped for breath through the gag. “Hmm. Yeah. Hold on.”

He unstrapped the dental gag and took it out. Bucky tried to form words, but nothing came out. He was completely gone inside himself. He could only kneel there and trust Steve.

“Let’s try without the rope.” Steve fully took it off and began jerking Bucky’s abused cock again. It still hurt, but this time Bucky could embrace it, carried away by the current instead of drowning under. _Anything,_ his mind began saying again, _anything, anything, yes, please, yes—_ and he pushed his hips up, leaned into Steve, made shameless noises, _ah, ah,_ it was already there, so good, almost too good, making him cry again, all this pleasure almost without any pain, this reward he’d finally reached—

“Oh, yeah. He’s doing it,” Sam said in a low voice. “We about to see his O-face.”

“Look up, Buck,” Steve said, tilting his chin—and Bucky came uncontrollably all over the floor.

He was left hunched over, shaking, tears soaking into the inside of his blindfold, hips still jerking into nothing. His mind was one great expanse of nothing; the nothing that’s left after an explosion.

“A sight to see,” Sam said in an undertone.

Bucky suddenly felt crushingly exhausted. He pitched forward and almost instantly found Steve’s chest against his forehead, his arms around his shoulders.

“I think you’re done,” Steve said with that smile in his voice. He kissed Bucky’s mouth, his cheek, his hair, his mouth again, and whispered, “I love you _so much.”_

Bucky couldn’t speak, but pressed his face against Steve’s t-shirt and stayed there. He was allowed. All he had to do now was let care be given to him.

Steve helped him kneel down, then sit back, and finally lie down to the side; the flood was hard and cold, but Bucky knew it was just for a while, and he heaved out an enormous sigh when Steve took the jingling ball out of his hand. He was done.

He’d done it.

Steve put the ball away, then unbuckled Bucky’s harness and the padded blindfold. It took very little time, compared to undoing rope work, and soon enough Bucky was free, clumsy like a newborn foal, keeping his eyes closed, kneeling up, clambering over to Steve to put his arms around him, cling to him, bury his face into his neck, breath still hitching with some leftover tears.

“Get up for a second, Bucky—over here…”

Steve brought him to the couch. Bucky felt Sam hug him from behind, so he was tucked between them both and it felt so good, so perfectly good, like finding the ideal position to sleep at night, the utmost peak of comfort. Sam was naked, which Bucky hadn’t realized before. His cock was soft, and it felt right—they’d all gotten what they wanted, they’d all found pleasure, and now they were soft and embracing and nothing hurt anymore. Bucky’s mind was going. He didn’t try to stop it.

*

He couldn’t have said how long he floated into the void. When he came back, it could have been ten minutes or half an hour. He was still enveloped in a twin hug, hands rubbing circles into his skin, absently petting his hair. Tears pricked at his eyes, but he found that he had his words back, ready for use.

“Thank—you,” he exhaled hoarsely. “Thank you. Both.”

“Thank _you,”_ Steve said at once, and “Thank _you,”_ Sam echoed, and both of them hugged him even tighter, Steve’s and Sam’s hand finding themselves across Bucky’s body.

After a quiet while, he dared to open his eyes—feeling, as usual, like he was coming back from another planet. He blinked at a close-up of Steve’s t-shirt. Tilted his head up to see him. “Hi.”

“Hey.” Steve was beaming.

Bucky then looked over his shoulder at Sam—who still had his white-and-gold make-up, smudged just enough to look even better. Yeah, fuck him, the smudged-up thing worked.

“Hey,” Bucky croaked.

“Hi,” Sam said, smiling wide. Bucky had never seen him smile like this. Not at him, anyway. From this close up, Bucky could see he had a little gap between his two front teeth.

“You fuck good,” Bucky said vaguely, which made Sam crack up.

“And you’re a _great_ fuck,” he answered fondly. “And Steve’s a great fucking Dom.”

“Aw—you know,” Steve said, proud as anything and trying to hide it. “Just thought it was worth a shot.”

“Man, we had all this UST going on,” Sam went on. “And now it’s ruined. Nat’s gonna be so disappointed.”

“What,” Bucky mumbled hoarsely, “you mean you’re not gonna be a pain anymore?”

“Obligatory pun,” Sam answered, “pain in the ass, something something. I’m very tired, I just fucked my own brains out. Cut me some slack.”

“Wow, we broke Wilson.” Bucky managed a weak smirk. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

After a while, the haze of perfection came down and Bucky started feeling sore, and sweaty, and too hot in place and too cold in the others. He moved—not much, but with a decisiveness that signaled aftercare could be over. He was very practiced at giving those signs now.

Sam was the first to disentangle himself, getting up and stretching with a lascivious groan. “I’m gonna take a shower in the water room—unless some people are a bit too enthusiastic in there, then I’ll go to the no-play zone.” He hesitated. “Hey, Barnes. Can I kiss you?”

Bucky smiled at him. “Sure. No tongue.”

“You’re so proper for a guy who just got off a wooden horse.” Sam smiled and gave him a peck on the lips. “I really had a great fuckin’ time.”

“Same here.” Bucky looked at him. “God, we _are_ done bickering, are we?”

“I’m sure it’ll come back soon enough.” Sam grinned and straightened up. “Catch you in a minute? Drinks downstairs?”

They approved wholeheartedly and he walked out of the room without even getting dressed—perks of a dungeon. Leaving them both to do their own debriefing was a nice touch, Bucky mused. Damn it, Sam Wilson _was_ a nice guy.

He burrowed deeper into Steve, who wrapped him in his arms. “You’re kinda silent, Stevie. How are you feeling?”

“How am _I_ feeling?” Steve laughed. “I’m still processing. Can’t imagine how _you’re_ feeling.”

“Like I just ran a marathon,” Bucky laughed. “Like… Wow. I _did_ it. You know? I wasn’t sure I could. It was scary for a while, but then it all went away. I was riding it.”

“Was it good? The set-up?”

“I can’t believe you picked _him._ I mean, the gag and the blindfold and the horse—I loved that so much, you know it, you saw it. And then, _wham._ Sam _fucking_ Wilson. I was so… I didn’t know what to think. And then I realized it made so much damn sense.”

“Yeah?” Steve said, sounding relieved.

Only then did Bucky realize Steve was _worried_. Of course he would be—there always was a fretting angle to his debriefs, and today’s scene hadn’t exactly been typical.

“Of course,” Bucky said. “We both knew exactly why you picked him. To play on something that was already there.”

“I thought you might like that,” Steve acquiesced, “but I wasn’t sure. That’s why I had to tell you first. I know you told me you wanted it to be a surprise, but…”

“Well, I _was_ real fuckin’ surprised. But in the end… it worked. Almost infuriating, you know, how right it was.” Bucky smiled. “You’re really good at what you do.”

“But it’s not really what you wanted.” Steve was obviously trying to find a way to beat himself up. “You wanted someone we’d never have to see again, someone we didn’t know—I just thought…”

“Yeah,” Bucky said firmly. “I had something in mind, and you had something else in mind, and it was _better,_ which is why I said _yes._ You played with Sam plenty of times. That’s why you picked him, right? ‘Cause you trusted him to do it right, and not make it awkward after. And looking back, I’m so goddamn relieved. If it hadn’t been someone you trusted, I couldn’t have gone through with this. I think maybe you couldn’t have either. But you found a way to make it work for all three of us. And it worked. It was perfect.”

Steve smiled bashfully at him, and they just cuddled for another little while.

*

 

Mostly dressed again, feeling dazed and drunk and high, Bucky walked back down the hallway, hand in hand with his tiny, wonderful Dom. He wanted to tell everybody what he’d done. He also wanted to go one floor down and sit on a couch and have a drink. What a crazy fucking night.

But as they walked past the impact room, Steve pulled Bucky to a stop.

“Sam? I thought we were going down for drinks?”

Sam perked up—he’d obviously been waiting for them to pass by. “I think it’s Romanov in there,” he said, gesturing at the packed room.

“What? For real?”

“She’s whipping someone. Can’t see who. Barnes, you tall enough?”

Bucky stretched his neck; he caught glimpses of a white guy, but the crowd wasn’t helping. “Shit. I can’t tell.”

“Let’s go in,” Steve said, and they murmured excuses as they pushed between people to go sit in the front.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Leave a comment if you're so inclined :D And don't forget to like or reblog [Ria's Tumblr post](http://riakomai.tumblr.com/post/179783845949/bucky-felt-sams-hands-settle-on-his-hips-okay) if you enjoyed the art as much as I did!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint's POV of dungeon night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO AND WELCOME to the last installment in this series, finally! I'm sorry it took so long - I wanted to make sure it was perfect, and then I wanted to make sure Ria had a chance to art for it. RL won this time, so I'm posting the words alone for now. But who knows, maybe we'll add an illustration in the future. Right now I just wanna thank her again for going on this ride with me. It's been a blast!

 

 

 

 

 

It was weird, going out for beers with all of Barnes’ friends. One moment they were perfectly normal people, and the next they were getting into an intense debate over which kind of flogger hurt the most.  (“Latex! It’s gotta be latex!” “No way, man, have you never tried silicon? With those spaghetti lashes? Silicon messes you _up.”_ “Leather’s nice too.” _“Please_ , leather is _nothing._ Latex all the way!” “All of you are wrong. Rope floggers are the worst.” “Oh yeah.” “Oh _man,_ I always forget about rope.” “Yeah, no one wants to remember _that.”)_

You got used to it after a while. Clint just let it flow through him like he did with the engineers’ shop talk at work. Usually he took those opportunities to eat everyone’s peanuts.

But that time had been different; there had been something new, a barely suppressed glee circulating between them. (“T’Challa’s coming to town in November,” Natasha had said, and Steve—who wasn’t usually the most demonstrative person—had straightened up abruptly on his chair and said “Get _outta_ here.”) Clint had asked them what it was about, and nearly forgotten to eat their peanuts listening to their answer. Hell, he’d barely remembered to drink his own beer.

So people actually _did_ that, he thought, walking to work that evening. His breath plumed in front of him. Dungeons, red room of pains, all that cliché’d Fifty Shades shit. Windowless basements with dangling chains, bare concrete floors, whips lined up on the wall. People did that.

The night shifts at Stark Industries were a bit more fun now that he was swapping make-up tutorials with Sam—who was extremely femme and didn’t seem to sleep a lot. They’d found an eyeshadow one Clint was very keen on trying. He would have loved to attempt gold lipstick as well, but he knew he was too white for that; on his pasty-ass face it’d just look like he’d slurped chicken grease.

 _you should do that one,_ he texted, sending the gold lipstick vid to Sam. _so i can live vicariously through you_

 _gr8 idea,_ Sam answered. _will do that for dungeon night_

Dungeon night. They were all going. Clint found himself worrying his lip, alone in the empty lobby of Stark Industries. The neon lights hummed in the quiet. It was so dark he couldn’t see outside; only flashes when cars drove by.

*

The two weeks on night shift came to an end and Clint went back to basically living at Nat’s apartment, which was all right since Bucky basically lived at Steve’s apartment, and Clint’s dog basically lived at his best friend Kate’s apartment. In the end everyone had a home, these days.

He loved to cook for her. It wasn’t great cuisine—right now, for example, he was a making a nothin’ omelet—but the food wasn’t the point. The point was having an excuse to stand there in a threadbare shirt and boxer shorts, so Nat could ogle when she walked past him. She threw small compliments his way, too. _Smells good. Looks nice._ Clint tended to forget to put on pants a lot, these days.

 _Service kink, praise kink, exhibitionism kink,_ Natasha listed with a grin whenever he did his half-naked cooking routine—because of course she’d noticed he was doing it all on purpose. _Not so vanilla after all, Barton._ It made him smile. And he kept cooking for her in his underwear whenever he had the chance. Hell, he was seriously thinking of buying a chef’s apron just so he could wear nothing underneath. Couples did that, right? In silly sitcoms they did. And Natasha had a thing for clothing and nudity and their various combinations. Natasha had a lot of _things_.

“I, uh,” Clint said today, over his omelet. “I was thinking I could maybe come along to the thing.”

Natasha, who was texting with her elbows on the counter, looked up. “The thing?”

“The thing, the—dungeon thing.”

He flipped his omelet. It sizzled in the silence.

“Are you sure?” Natasha asked.

Okay. That one hurt a little. “You asking ‘cause my last girlfriend beat me up?”

Her eyes went a little wide. _Dummy,_ Clint instantly thought to himself. _Fucking dummy._ Why did he have to go and say that? Why was he putting that stuff on her? Why couldn’t he just trust her the way she trusted him? Why did he always have to—

“Your omelet’s gonna burn,” Natasha said, reaching over the counter.

Clint let her lower the heat.

“It doesn’t actually have anything to do with your ex,” she said, sitting back.

“I’m sorry. I don’t even… I don’t even know why I said that to you.”

Nat smiled and shook her head. “I think I do. It’s okay.”

Clint swallowed, almost said sorry again, then went back to his omelet. A bit singed at the edges, but otherwise salvageable.

Natasha folded her arms on the counter and rested her chin on them. “It’s not about whether you can handle yourself,” she went on. “I just wouldn’t want you to sit in a corner all night having no fun.”

“I’ve been alone and awkward at parties before. I could handle that.”

“Being alone and awkward at an orgy is _pretty_ awkward.”

“Back in my day, we called that prom night.” He couldn’t help grinning like an idiot when she snorted. “Seriously, though. I promise, I’m… I’m not gonna ruin your night. I can mingle anywhere. Hell, we’ve been training for that, right? Going to all these museums and stuff?”

“Clint, I’m going to beat up people.”

Clint blinked up at her. He really _was_ an idiot—so self-centered he hadn’t imagined _Nat_ was the one feeling self-conscious for once. “Well, that’s… that’s okay. Seeing you spank a dude isn’t gonna make me… scared of you, or whatever.”

“Yeah?” Natasha said flatly. “How about seeing me hit someone with a belt while they sob naked on the floor begging me to stop?”

Clint opened his mouth, but she looked away before he could think of something.

He pushed down the familiar feeling of _you goddamn useless fuck-up, Barton_. He was better than that, these days. He just had to keep his head and use his words. She wasn’t mad. They were talking about this. They were always talking about things. He knew she’d always listen to what he had to say.

What was he _trying_ to say?

“I love you,” he said at last. “And I love that you do weird shit I don’t understand at all.”

Natasha looked at him again. That was a start.

“And I won’t spend the whole evening staring at you, anyway. You can even tell me to fuck off before you do something, if you’re worried. I won’t mind. It’s like you told me once. We take care of each other.”

She gave a half-smile that felt even better than praise. Good fucking job, Barton. Now keep using those goddamn words.

“I just wanna be… around,” he finished up. “Just this once.”

She exhaled, then shook up her red hair like she was coming out of a dream. “I’m still stuck on _why.”_

“I don’t know, I…” He tapped his spatula against the side of the pan, looking for words. “I wanna _get_ it. What you all do. But I probably won’t ever get it. So I wanna at least see for myself. You know?”

“So, just plain old curiosity?”

“I guess. Yeah. But—but if you’d rather keep that place to yourself, that’s fine too. I mean, obviously, if you won’t be able to enjoy yourself when I’m there—”

“Okay,” she just said.

He blinked.

“Okay,” she repeated. “It’ll be fun.” Then her little smile stretched into a grin. _“_ What are you going to wear?”

*

TOURIST, Clint’s shirt proclaimed as he pulled Natasha’s bag out of the car. They’d done the bedazzling themselves at home. (Buying a bedazzler, incidentally, had been a mistake. Part of the couch would now sparkle eternal, and Clint was kinda looking forward to Bucky’s reaction when he found out.)

Sam and Bucky kept bickering under Steve’s amused gaze; Clint and Nat brought up the rear. As they walked across the parking lot, Natasha kept staring at him. He’d asked her for help with his dungeon outfit and she’d picked black army pants and a tight short-sleeved shirt. Of course she’d decide on something he was comfortable in; not something ridiculously slutty or overly classy. But something that still made her hot and bothered.

Fuck, he _really_ liked it when she ogled him. Was that a kink? Was that all there was to a kink?

“You gonna stop objectifying me, or what?” he said as they got near the entrance.

“Oh, Barton, we’re _not_ going to the right place for that.” Her coat wasn’t wrapped up tight; he could see glimpses of her corset and stockings as she walked. “Do you even _know_ how much of a fetish the military can be?”

“Can’t imagine why. I was in the army for two years and that was about the least sexy time of my life.” He batted his painted eyelids at her. “But I guess my ass does look great in fatigues.”

She put her hand in his back pocket to feel the muscles of said ass work as he walked, and he was suddenly glad they were going to a place where they could fuck if they wanted. Even though she probably wouldn’t want to waste that night on little old vanilla Barton.

After they’d walked in—and seriously, an _office building!—_ Clint had a little moment when Natasha kissed that Nakia woman. Hell, he was only human. And male. And straight.

However, associating with Steve Grant Rogers—angry queer activist and all-around stand-up guy—had made Clint uncomfortably aware of a great many shortcomings on his part, most of them born out of mainstream porn. So he was mildly horrified at how much he actually enjoyed watching his girlfriend make out with another girl. Oh, no, this was bad, this was—this was fetishizing real people sexuality, he told his boner sternly. And also female objectification. And probably other stuff just as questionable. His boner, tragically, did not care.

Of course, Natasha was quick to notice he was making a weird face. “You okay? Was that weird for you? I never did make out with anyone else in front of you before—”

“No, it was, um—” Might as well confess. “It was. Uh. Hot.”

Natasha’s eyebrow climbed up. “Seeing me with someone else?”

“Seeing you with, uh. With a girl.” Clint cleared his throat. “And I’m. Very sorry. About that.”

She snort-laughed and put her arm around his waist. “We can ask her if she’d like a threesome, you know.”

Sweet God, it was going to be a complicated night.

*

So apparently Natasha, Steve and Sam couldn’t walk through a dungeon without shaking a dozen hands each. Which was super cool as long as you didn’t think too hard about where those hands may have been. At first, Clint ended up chatting with Bucky at the bar, nobodies that they both were; but then Steve came back and grabbed Bucky and they both left towards the ominous silver elevator.

That thing seemed to take all the room in Clint’s perception. Sort of a stairway to heaven thing. Or a highway to hell. He wondered what Steve and Bucky were going to do up there. He didn’t exactly want to _know,_ per se. But he still wondered.

Left alone, he toyed with his ginger ale, unsure whether he should order some actual alcohol. He’d promised Nat he wouldn’t mope alone in a corner. He could blend in. Talk to people. Sure, some of them were half-naked, but _that_ wasn’t really any different than a regular Halloween party.

A hand suddenly brushed up his back; he startled and swiveled round. There stood a tall guy in dark glasses who looked like a model.

He’d frozen up right after touching Clint and was now saying something in a low, raspy voice. Clint shifted back. “You gonna have to speak up, man. See? I’m wearing hearing aids.”

“I said, sorry about that,” the guy repeated _._ His glasses were _very_ dark. “I’m actually—”

“Blind,” Clint said with sudden understanding. “Fuck. Sorry.”

“Oh, don’t be sorry. Nice to meet a kindred soul.” A smile was dancing on his mouth. “I’m Matt. Murdock. This seat taken?”

“Uh, no, go ahead. I’m Clint.”

Matt’s hand fluttered forward to find the bar stool; once he’d found it, he perched up with no trouble. Clint couldn’t help noticing Scott was busy at the other end of his island.

“Want me to grab the bartender’s attention for ya?”

“I’d appreciate it.” Matt’s smile was wry. “I came with a friend who usually helps me with those things, but he got swamped three steps in.”

“Hah, same thing happened for me.” Clint gestured at Scott who came around and took Matt’s order. “You a kinkster, then?”

Matt’s pleasant expression didn’t change, although it was hard to tell with his round dark glasses. “Well, yes, it’s why I’m here. You’re not?”

“Not really. Uh, not at all. And also I’m straight. I mean—sorry—I’m here with my girlfriend Nat.” Jesus, Barton, what a douche. Why don’t you _try_ sounding more defensive?

“Not Natasha Romanov?” Matt said.

“Uh. Yeah, actually. You know her?” Of _course_ he knew her. Apparently _everyone_ knew Nat.

Matt sat without moving for a few seconds, then reached out. “Can I touch your face?”

Clint supposed he owed him one, what with his little burst of gay panic. Besides, he was pretty sure it was a blind thing, not a kink thing. “Sure? Careful, though, I’m wearing make-up.”

Matt reached out and tip-toed his fingers over Clint’s face. It wasn’t sensual; more like he was mapping Clint’s features—which, of course, he was. Then he let his hand fall and grinned.

“I can never tell whether people are handsome or not. But you’re dating Nat, so I thought maybe you were so striking that it’d come through anyway.”

Clint let out a slightly shocked laugh. “No, you’ve got me beat here, man. You’re, like, ridiculously pretty.” He felt giddy saying that. The complete frankness that reigned in kink spaces was a bit of a drug. “So you—you know Nat?”

“We used to play a lot.” Matt smiled. “She’s an amazing woman. Made me cry more times than I can count.”

He’d said it with the same kind of satisfied pride that came out of Barnes sometimes, when he mentioned some of the things Steve put him through. The oddest thing about all this, Clint thought, wasn’t the pain and the humiliation by themselves; it was how utterly _delighted_ it all made them. In the movies, kinksters were always depicted as twisted people, carrying their perversion into their personality—shameful or sniveling when submissive, cruel and borderline fascist when dominant. So far all the people Clint had met in the scene were regular folks having a jolly good time.

“Well, I’m glad for you. Can you feel what’s written on my shirt?” he asked.

Matt’s fingers brushed over the bedazzled letters; he laughed half-way through the word.

“So, tell me, Mr. Murdock, as a local,” Clint said, putting on an exaggerated interviewer voice, “how would you explain that pain feels good sometimes?”

Matt looked genuinely thoughtful. “Broad question. I guess I feel good _about_ taking pain.”

“Huh.” Clint emptied his ginger ale. “Yeah, I think I can see that. Like running a marathon, right?”

“Exactly like running a marathon. The way effort feels good, even though it’s sometimes unbearable, always a relief to stop. Pain is effort. It’s a rush for the body and it’s gratifying for the mind. Both end in endorphins, too.”

“Disagree,” Scott suddenly said, bringing Matt his non-alcoholic beer. “I _love_ pain for pain. I love the feeling. It’s like—it’s like lightning going through my mind, you know? _Kra-kow!”_

Matt laughed. “No two masochists are the same, I guess.”

Clint was kinda fascinated. “And—does it turn you on?”

“Not really,” said Matt, at the same time Scott said, “ _Oh_ yes.”

An arm suddenly laced around Clint’s waist—and this time, it wasn’t a handsome blind guy looking for a drink. “Hey, Clint,” said Natasha. “I see you’re living up to your t-shirt.”

“Natasha, I’m so glad you’re here tonight,” Matt said. He tilted his head at Clint. “And can I just say, you have excellent taste in men.”

Natasha grinned. “Yes, Clint’s great. I might have just topped myself this time.”

“Was that a pun,” Scott said, pained.

“It’s _always_ a pun, Lang.”

Some people called for Scott’s attention and, as he left to attend to them, Clint’s left hearing aid sort of followed him, picking up on the conversation. _Hey, can I get a Sprite?_ A guy and a girl. Scott had walked away now, and they kept talking between themselves. _Would you be down for sodomy?_ the guy was asking. _Sure,_ the girl said. _If you could skip the lube, that’d be great, I like it better when it hurts a little, you know?_ A glass sliding on the bar, ice cubes clinking. The guy said something Clint didn’t understand, the edges of his words blurred by laughter. The girl giggled too, then added, _Oh, whatever happens, don’t touch my hair, though._ Clint took a long swig of his drink then tuned back into the conversation at hand, feeling a bit overwhelmed.

“I suppose your dance card’s already full?” Matt was asking in that same casually neutral negotiation voice—the one that said _I will graciously back off if needed but I would in fact like you to wreck me beyond reason according to those specific terms._

“I don’t do dance cards anymore,” Natasha said. “Too many promises I can never keep in one night. Now I go with impulses.” She smiled, and put the smile in her voice for his benefit. “We’ll just have to cross paths again and see what happens.”

“Well, I’ll do my best to force destiny’s hand.” Matt smiled back. “Are you going to give Clint the tour?”

“If he’s up for it.”

Clint completely forgot he’d been vaguely planning to stay on the lower floor all night. “Uh. Sure. S’what I came for, right?” He got up. “Nice meeting you, man. Bye, Scott!”

“And you.” Matt raised his glass in his general direction with another smile, while Scott threw finger guns at him from the other side of the bar.

As they walked away, Clint realized he was holding Nat’s hand. “So, you… you played with that guy? Matt?”

She didn’t glance at him to check that he wasn’t jealous, which he really appreciated. “Yeah, he’s a switch. Goes both ways.”

Clint tried not to stare at an entirely topless woman passing them by. She was otherwise only wearing a sparkly black thong and thigh-high boots, and turned to yell over her shoulder _I’m gonna get a tomato juice, what do you guys want?_

“Earth to Clint?”

“Sorry. Boob in my eye.” And that was fine to say, too. It would only make her smile. What a thing to realize. He pulled himself back into the conversation. “You—he said he was a masochist? I thought that was more Steve’s taste.”

“Like I said, I enjoy pain when it’s given as submission. And Matt usually gives… everything.”

They’d almost reached the elevator. Clint glanced at her. “You know, you can go back and beat him up. I meant it when we said—I can entertain myself.”

She leaned in to give him a kiss. “It’s _you_ I want to show around.”

He smiled at her as the elevator doors opened, then closed on them. Clint’s eyes sort of slid down into Nat’s cleavage. “I really, really like you in a corset.”

“Do you want to fuck?” Natasha asked. The silver walls hummed. “With me in a corset?”

Before he could answer, the doors opened on velvety darkness, backlit up only by the elevator’s mood lighting. They stepped out, the doors closed, and the obscurity was complete.

Clint’s eyes were adjusting already. Black light lamps on the ceiling were casting purple shadows. This floor sounded much quieter—his hearings aids picked up some blurry, faraway things that might have been moans. It was like a particularly erotic haunted house.

“I don’t know,” he said, finally answering the corset question. “I mean—yeah, I do. But it’s something we could do just as well at your place, right?”

“So that means you want to do something here we can’t do at home,” Natasha said in a Casually Neutral Negotiation voice.

“Well, I’m a tourist, right? It says so on my shirt. So I wanna try something local.”

Natasha pushed him against the wall, slowly but firmly, and tugged him by the collar of his shirt to talk against his lips.

“May I grope you in this semi-public area?”

“It’d be my genuine pleasure,” he said, and closed his eyes with a moan when she squeezed him through his black fatigues.

“Okay,” she said, massaging him. “Public sex? Does that appeal?”

Clint thought about it. “I… don’t think I’d _mind?_ Maybe? I mean, I could probably try to forget I’m being stared at. Unless they start commenting on my technique.”

“How about a threesome?”

“Uh.” Clint would’ve said more, but her _hand_ was on his _dick._

“With a girl,” she elaborated. “Or not. You tell me.”

“I…”

Something ugly and complicated squeezed at his chest. Maybe Jessica’s parting words. _You’re a bad person, Clint Barton. Every time anybody starts to care about you, you let them down._

He didn’t mind Nat’s job. He didn’t mind her kissing other people and fucking other people. But his own monogamy was something he’d rather not tamper with again. He wasn’t _traumatized._ It wasn’t, like, tied to his self-worth or anything. But still.

“I… no. I mean, I’ll jerk off to that later, but—”

“No,” she acknowledged. “Okay, let me think,” and kissed him again, deep and sloppy.

They just made out some more for a while, which was nice. Clint ran his hands up the arched bones of her corset and thought maybe going somewhere to fuck could be really, really _nice,_ actually—

Natasha stepped back, smiling. “Let’s go explore a bit? Maybe we’ll find some inspiration.”

“Okay,” Clint said.

She took his hand again, and they stepped into the dark corridor. On the first corner they turned, Clint stopped dead. “What the hell is that.”

“Shh…”

It was a guy tying up a girl—something that was probably commonplace for Nat. It certainly wasn’t for him. She was half-naked, with her arms tied behind her back, suspended in midair. She had a leg free, toes brushing the ground. Her other leg was bent double and tied to her upper body. You had to be fucking _flexible_ for this shit.

It was so strange to see that in real life. Like Nat’s latex catsuit had been—a production, something out of a movie; except now it was happening right in front of his eyes.

“She okay?” Clint whispered. “Suspension’s kinda dangerous, right?”

“That’s only half-suspension, she’s resting on her foot. And look, they’re doing a check-up,” Natasha murmured in answer. Indeed the rigger had slowly spun her around and was now looking at her hands—which were shockingly blue; but she was wiggling her fingers, touching them one after another to her thumbs, and then giving a thumbs-up several times in a row.

“Look at her fingers! They’re _purple.”_

“That’s just circulation,” Natasha said. “It comes back. I’ll admit it _looks_ worrying. But I know this couple, they’ve been playing together for a while. If they’re not alarmed, that’s probably situation normal for them.”

The rigger was now getting ready to fold the girl’s other leg up. She was gorgeous, but she was so frail and willowy and softly moaning in pain as her body spun in the ropes. Clint just felt a little uncomfortable watching her. Natasha must have noticed, since she pulled on his hand again. “Let’s move on.”

They did, walking into the dark and passing a dozen little individual fuckstalls—Natasha almost hurt something trying to laugh silently when Clint shared that word with her—until they got to a big area with two words stenciled on the wall. IMPACT ROOM.

“Wow,” Clint said. There was a couple fucking on the couch, and another playing with a cane further down, but neither of them were in full swing— _hah_ —and they were surprisingly easy to ignore in favor of everything else around them. Only now did Clint understand what Natasha had meant, during her briefing, with the words _dungeon furniture._ There was a steel cross thingy and about a dozen things obviously meant for bending people over. Plus a bunch of paddles and whips on the wall. It was so weird to know that they were all functional and meant for regular use.

Clint looked at a small pink flogger on the wall. “That one’s tiny. It’s only got a couple of strands.”

“Oh, yeah,” Nat said. “It’s traditionally called the _little bitch.”_

Clint snorted. “I can’t even tell when you’re joking anymore.”

On the couch across the room, the couple had started fucking in earnest. Clint had never imagined it would be so easy to have a casual conversation in the presence of two strangers having sex. It was the same kind of magic that operated in any public area with predefined rules, he supposed. Some things were allowed, and thus ignorable. He knew, going in, that people were cleared to fuck around here. As for the noises and visuals, it wasn’t anything he’d never seen in porn before. So his brain just wrote them off.

“I’m not—” Natasha blinked when he took the small flogger off the wall. “What are you doing?”

“I’m curious now. I gotta know what the fuss is all about. Just one time, you know?”

She crossed her arms with a smile. “I’m not hitting you with that. Or anything else. I made a promise.”

“No worries,” Clint said, holding out his forearm in front of him. “I’m a strong independent vanilla man who don’t need no Dom. Here goes!”

The first hit was completely disappointing; it felt like wet spaghetti. Natasha bit her lower lip. “Try holding your arm farther away from you. You need a good swing. Hit with the end of the lashes.”

“Okay. Second try—”

The _slap!_ of the plastic strands was very sharp even in his hearing aids—and the sting made him squeal at an unreasonably high pitch. _“Ow!_ Fucking—little—”

“Little bitch?” Natasha suggested, deadpan.

Clint put the flogger back on the wall. “I’m definitely not a masochist.” He rubbed his forearm. “Fuck, it still fucking stings. Why did I think that would be a good idea?”

Natasha shook her head, now grinning. “Tourists.” She offered her arm with an exaggerated flourish. “Next room?”

He took it, smiling. Red lashes were blooming on his forearm. “Next room.”

They turned at the corner and found themselves in front of the words WATER ROOM.

“Water room?” Clint repeated. He looked at Natasha, then looked into the room, then looked at her again. “Is that—”

“Yeah,” she said.

“For _real?”_

“Yeah. Don’t kinkshame. Takes all sorts to make a dungeon.”

“I’m just gonna… I don’t know. Back away slowly.” He took her hand again. “That’s another nope from me, sorry.”

She kissed him on the cheek. “Don’t say sorry.”

There was a map on the wall; Clint’s brow pulled into a frown when he saw that the next two big rooms were named SEX ROOM and TORTURE ROOM. They were back to back, and the hallway was branching out to circle around them. Clint went left so they would encounter the torture room first; he wasn’t sure he wanted to finish up on that, while ‘sex room’ sounded at least marginally more appealing to him.

Except that the torture room—

“Whoops. Nope,” Natasha said, and pushed him away before he could see inside. “Better not.”

“What? Why? Whatever it is, I can handle it—”

“Steve, Bucky and Sam are in there.”

“—as I was saying, I _can’t_ handle it,” Clint said, speedwalking away. “Jesus. The _three_ of them? What are they doing? Don’t answer that.” He looked at her. “Or—like, give me a hint.”

“Bucky’s in the middle,” Natasha offered.

“Cool. Thanks. No more hints.” Clint waited a few seconds, then said, _“Sam?”_

Natasha gave him a huge grin. “Don’t tell me you didn’t see that coming. He’s been into Bucky for _so_ long.” Her smile widened even more. “And now he’s _literally_ into—”

“I _get_ it.” Clint couldn’t help smiling back. “Good for them, I guess.”

“Looked like they were having fun,” Natasha agreed cheerfully. “Oh, speaking of which—”

They had walked all around and come up to the sex room. Clint stopped at the door and stared at the many, many people enjoying themselves in there. A girl riding a dude on a mattress, two women working on a third one lying on a gynecological chair with her feet up in stirrups, a line of girls waiting for their opportunity to ride what Clint knew was a sybian—he had _some_ porn education now. A few dudes standing around a glory hole cabin…

He expected to be at least a little turned on—this was sex, right? This was _just_ sex, which should have been his thing. But instead he felt removed from it all. This was all very elaborate and complex and a lot of work and he just—he didn’t like work. He didn’t like sex as a performance. He liked having sex with Natasha when it was just the two of them and he was guided only by what felt good. He liked putting on a few of her tricks to please her—he’d never get tired of the look on her face when he knelt for her—but in the end it was all about moving together and forgetting himself for a little while. And seeing her smile at the end, knowing he’d done well, knowing she liked him. Loved him, maybe.

He rubbed the back of his head. “Well, this is the most vanilla room in here, and I still don’t really feel I’m up for any of that.”

“It’s okay. You just wanted to see, right?”

“And I sure got an eyeful.” He made a little face at her. “I don’t know, I—I wanted to try _something_ , though. Like—a token thing.”

“You did whip yourself with that flogger.”

He snorted a laugh. “Yeah, and it _still_ fucking stings, by the way, but I…”

He stopped when he saw Nat’s attention had been drawn by something; following her gaze, his eyes landed on a blond girl sitting by herself on a bar stool. For a second, Clint thought she was smoking, but she just had a lollipop in her mouth.

“We should go talk to her,” Natasha suddenly said.

Clint blinked. “Uh. Okay?” He followed her across the room, quite literally stepping over people having sex.

“Hey, Carol,” Natasha said.

Carol turned her head, quick like a bird, then grinned around the lollipop’s stem. “Nat! How’s it going?”

“Great.” Natasha hugged her, then pushed Clint forward. “This is my boyfriend Clint.”

“Hi, Clint. I like your make-up,” said Carol, and shook his hand. Then she took a lollipop from the bucket next to her. “Dick-pop?”

Clint saw her lollipop was shaped like a bright blue cock.

“They’re ironic,” she said. “I’m, like, a huge lesbian.”

“Oh, well, I’m straight, so, sure,” Clint said, and took one. “Thanks.”

“Awesome.” She beamed at him. “You having a good time, tourist?”

“Uh, yeah. I mean—I _am_ very much a tourist here.”

“Same,” Carol answered casually. “I’m here with my wife. She’s under that pile of hot girls over there.” She cupped a hand around her mouth and called, “Get it, Maria!”

One of the women, who had her head between another’s legs, raised her hand into an energetic thumbs-up.

“Ah, see, my ironic lollipops don’t really work—one of these girls _has_ a dick,” Carol said, squinting at the tangle of women. “I guess it’s more, like, the spirit of the thing.”

“You’re vanilla too?” Clint asked, not sure he’d gotten it right.

“ _Oh_ yeah,” Carol said, huffing a laugh through her nose. “Are you kidding me? These guys are freaks.”

“Thanks, hon,” said a massive fur-and-leather drag queen passing by, laying a hand on her shoulder.

“No problem, MB,” she said cheerfully, handing him a dick-pop as he went. Then she smiled at Clint and Natasha again. “So what can I do for ya?”

“How about a back rub?” Natasha said.

Clint blinked at her as Carol perked up. “Hell yeah! I _love_ giving back rubs.” She looked at Clint. “You up for that?”

“Uh,” he said. “Sure?”

“Will you give me one afterwards?”

“Sure,” he repeated.

“Awesome.” She jumped from her stool and said, “Sit over here. You mind taking your shirt off?”

Clint hadn’t ever imagined a back rub could be better than sex, but sitting there in the middle of a literal orgy while this tiny blonde woman worked his trapezius and delts, he thought he might just be about to change his fucking mind. At first he tried not to groan too loud, but then he remembered it really didn’t matter here, and let himself make all the noises he wanted.

 _“Jesus,”_ he moaned when Carol managed to unknot the tension from his shoulders. “Are you a professional… massage artist or—something?”

“Nah, man, I’m a fighter pilot.”

He waited for the punch line, then blinked. “Wait, really?”

“Yeah. I just really like giving people back rubs.” She patted his back to signal that she was done. “Okay, your turn.”

She took his place on the stool and Clint did his best to do as good a job as she had. Across the room, Natasha was chatting with Matt, who had apparently found her again. Seeing that Clint had emerged from his ecstatic daze, she smiled at him and mouthed, _Enjoying yourself?_

He grinned at her and nodded, then focused on Carol again, rubbing his thumbs across her back. As he did, it really struck him—you could do what you wanted in here. Absolutely anything you wanted. Including giving a completely vanilla back rub to a friendly lesbian because you just weren’t into any weird shit.

Even though he had insisted he was only coming here to take a look, he had started to feel, over time, like he was competing with Steve and Natasha and Bucky and Sam, and everyone else here—with their grandiose kink histories and their partners by the dozen and their acrobatic sex acts. Entering T’Challa’s dungeon had turned that feeling up to eleven, to the point that he felt like he _had_ to do something before he left. These people’s ability to distort pain into something they liked, to turn their sexuality into a spectacle—it was so easy to get caught up in that. Maybe this was what Natasha had been really afraid of, bringing him here. And this was definitely why she had zeroed on Carol.

Because Carol didn’t give a shit. All she wanted was to cheer on her wife and eat some candy and maybe get a nice massage if she got the chance. And that was _fine._ Anything you wanted, on either end of the spectrum, was fine.

“Done,” Clint said after a little while.

“Hey, thanks, man,” Carol said, smiling at him over her shoulder. “That was great.”

“Thank _you,”_ Clint said, and really meant it. “Say hi to your wife for me.”

“Sure will. Grab some more lollipops if you want.”

Clint actually did, stuffing half a dozen of them in his pockets, then sauntered across the room to get to Natasha. “Hey there.”

“Hey, Clint,” she said, smiling like she knew exactly what he had gotten out of this.

And of course she did. She was an experienced kinkster; she had to be aware of the performance trap. Probably even bought into it for a while, herself. And then come back from it.

“Had a good time?”

“I had the best time,” he said. “And I love you and I’m going to kiss you now.”

She grinned and met him for a long, sweet kiss. “You taste like cherry.”

“Well, I’ve been sucking a lot of cock,” he said, proffering the candy. “Want one?”

“Later, sure. Right now, I have to go beat up Matt.” Next to her, Matt was absolutely beaming. “What do you want to do?”

Clint thought about it, then said, “I wanna see how you do it. If it starts getting weird I’ll just wait for you at the bar.”

Natasha pecked him on the lips again. “Sounds like a plan.”

*

Clint hadn’t expected to enjoy Natasha’s scene so much.

He had thought he would feel like he had watching the bondage suspension or the orgy room—mostly removed, faintly curious, interested only in a _huh, so this is happening_ kind of way. Maybe a bit uncomfortable, too. But in fact he was completely entranced from the start.

A lot of it was due to the fact that Natasha herself was clearly, completely absorbed in what she was doing, from the moment she grabbed a naked Matt by the neck and guided him to the Saint-Andrew’s cross. It was like a bubble had appeared around them; she didn’t seem able to hear or see anything except Matt. She made him face the cross, shackled him securely at the wrists and ankles with slow, careful movements, then spoke into his ear for a while. He nodded, again and again. Without his glasses, his eyes were dark and soft. He was breathing slowly, deeply. It felt like they were about to do something religious.

She walked to the wall of whips, took a suede flogger first and brushed the lashes across his shoulders. Then she whipped the air a few times—his hair moved; he could probably feel wind across his naked back. When she was done building tension, she hit him across the back, so gently it didn’t look painful at all. Clint thought he could have probably taken that, himself.

Looking over his shoulder, he realized that a small crowd had formed. He had been musing about performance before, and this certainly was one, except for the fact that Natasha obviously didn’t _care_ whether it was one. Even though she was undoubtedly energized by the people watching her—she liked being watched; her outfit alone was proof of that—she wasn’t doing it _for_ them. She kept hitting Matt with a regular pattern. The noise of suede against skin was softer than Clint would have thought, and Matt wasn’t making a sound, wasn’t even flinching. This obviously didn’t hurt in any way. Wasn’t it supposed to hurt?

As they took a break and she came closer to whisper with him again, more people came in. Three of them made their way across the crowd to come sit on the floor next to Clint.

“Hey, Clint.” It was Steve, who found a spot on the couch; he nodded towards Matt. “For a moment we thought that was you.”

“You do look like you spent some quality time with _someone,”_ said Sam, settling down on the floor.

“Gorgeous blonde worked me over,” Clint said. “I’ll tell you afterwards. You guys have fun?”

“So much fun,” Bucky exhaled, sitting between Steve’s legs and leaning back into him. He looked dazed, heavy-lidded with pupils blown, and he had red marks on his face and arms, obviously where restraints had dug into his skin. “Sam’s cool, man. He’s cool.”

“You’re not so bad yourself,” Sam grinned.

Clint glanced at Steve, meaning _how weird is it to see them getting along?_ and Steve snorted back, meaning _I know, right._ Then he asked, “They’ve only just begun, right?”

“Yeah. Shh—it’s starting again,” Clint said as Natasha stepped back and raised her flogger again.

This time she hit harder, again and again in a regular pattern across, left and right, left and right. Over time, two patches of red skin started appearing between Matt’s shoulder blades, on each side of his spine. He still wasn’t making any noise, but he was breathing heavily, pressing his forehead to the cross, and Natasha was—she was so entirely focused, so clearly in the zone. It transformed her completely. It was like she was painting something, or sculpting something, so very attentive to the way it could slip away from her if she let her mind wander.

After another break—shorter, because Matt was mumbling _I’m good, I’m good, please keep going, please please;_ Clint could read his lips _—_ Natasha grabbed another flogger which looked like it was packing a hell of a punch, thick and wide leather lashes swaying heavily. When she struck Matt with it, Clint could see the shockwave ripple through the muscles of his back. He _still_ wouldn’t make any noise, but the wind was audibly knocked out of him.

“Oh, she’s good,” Bucky mumbled.

“That looks _heavy,”_ Sam commented.

More people were murmuring around them, commenting the scene. Clint absurdly thought about golf. So many people were watching, some whispering Natasha’s name to each other. He felt sort of proud. He wanted to say, _That’s my girlfriend._

Matt was finally starting to make noises, short bursts of sound. Natasha gave him a break while she picked up another whip, and Clint sat up, because he had spent enough time around kinksters by now that he knew what this meant. This wasn’t a flogger anymore; this was a singletail.

“Give me some room,” Natasha said without even looking around, and the crowd retreated to give her a wide berth. Clint noticed Nakia, Okoye and another DM walking around, pushing some people further back, making sure nobody was in range. Except, of course, for Matt, shackled to his cross.

The first hit made him flinch and gasp—and a welt instantly started to bloom red on his skin. Natasha wasn’t hitting him with the full length of the whip, holding most of it in her hand and lashing him only with the end, but—it worked, it obviously worked. She kept going and, within minutes, he was sweating, trembling, his back covered in crisscrossing red marks.

And this was when Clint understood what Natasha had meant by her subs giving over everything to her—when Matt started screaming. It wasn’t fully-throated, dramatic screaming, either; but genuine, visceral, strangled bursts of pain he couldn’t hold back. With every hit, he pulled hard at his restraints, arched, gritted his teeth as the agony rushed through his body; sometimes she lashed him several times in row and he struggled frantically, shouted and writhed, finally went limp when she let him breathe. This was obviously incredibly difficult for him, but he was making the effort for her. For no other reason than because he wanted to give it to her, and he knew _she_ could give it back to him. And that was what they both liked, what they both craved from each other: the transcending.

They paused a few more times, and Clint couldn’t help noticing that Matt could take a lot more right after, every time they did. He had talked about endorphins; it took a lot of skill, probably, a lot of experience, to find someone’s personal pace, and adapt to their physicality. Natasha was gleaming with sweat, too. There was no clear ending to the scene. She just paused once more, and then, upon whispering with Matt, simply did not pick up the whip; just unchained him and supported him while he staggered to the couch—all the people on it getting up to make room, like a school of fish dispersing before a deep diver. For a second, Clint thought there would be applause, but nothing happened. The rest of the crowd just broke apart with satisfied murmurs, which, he instantly understood, made sense—both Matt and Natasha were completely out of it, existing only to each other. Applause would have meant nothing to them.

“I need,” Matt was saying, nosing at her neck. “Natasha. I need. I _need.”_

“I know,” she murmured. “Go on,” and he slid down to his knees in front of her, prostrated himself and, with utmost respect and care, started licking her boots.

This time Clint looked away. This felt—odd to watch. Too intimate. Too peculiar. He walked away and realized that Steve, Bucky and Sam were at the other end of the room, chatting in low voices with a short, plump man.

“Hey, it’s the boyfriend-in-law,” he beamed as Clint got closer. Seeing Clint’s confused expression, he added, “I’m Foggy. Matt’s boyfriend. You’re Nat’s, right?”

“Oh—yeah, right. Hey, man” Clint said, shaking his hand.

Bucky was stretching and blinking like he had been hypnotized. “Wow. That was something.”

“It really was,” Steve said, looking a bit dazed himself. He smiled at Clint. “How are you feeling?”

“Impressed,” Clint answered sincerely. He looked at Nat on the couch. Matt was done licking her boots; he was kneeling between her legs, now, simply resting there, breathing deeply. Natasha’s eyes were half-open, glittering, and she was slowly carding her fingers through Matt’s sweat-soaked hair.

“I can’t go talk to her, right?” Clint asked. “I shouldn’t disturb them.”

 _“Disturb_ them?” Foggy snorted. “Check this out. Hey, Matt? Matt! _Matt!”_

Neither Natasha nor Matt batted an eyelid. Sam still swatted at Foggy, indignant. “Dude! Don’t do that!”

“It’s okay,” Steve laughed. “I’ve seen them play before. Even a fire alarm couldn’t make them pay attention right now.” He looked at Clint and added seriously, “Sam’s right, though. In general, never do what Foggy just did.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “You’re so full of shit, Rogers.” He stretched, too, and added, “What do you say we all go get a drink? Foggy’s got a point—they’re gonna be out for a while.”

“Is that—that’s subspace, right?” Clint asked Bucky.

Bucky glanced towards Steve, who nodded, looking at Natasha and Matt affectionately. “Yeah, big time.”

Clint could almost see it—the bubble, still. Like a physical thing separating them from the world. He had wondered, going in, if he might feel jealous. But there was nothing here for him to be jealous of; this was so alien, so far removed from what he could do or feel. He was playing with Nat in one court, and Matt was playing with her in another. Clint was just glad she had such dedicated partners to play with.

*

It was actually a whole hour before Matt and Natasha came out of the elevator. She was leading him by the arm. Foggy hurried out to meet them and Natasha readily let him take her place. Her makeup was gone; she was barefoot and wearing sweatpants and a hoodie Clint recognized as his own.

“Hey,” he said, getting down from his stool, “are you—whoa,” and he just had time to open his arms before she kissed the daylights out of him. After the rigidity of the corset, it was wonderful to have her suddenly against him like that, soft and warm. He ran his fingers through her hair and felt her hold him so tight, and remembered how nervous she had been about him coming here. He kissed her even more in answer and said in her ear, “You were amazing.”

She pulled back and gave him a huge smile. “Really?”

“Like seeing Van Gogh paint,” he said, which he thought would make her snort and punch his shoulder—but instead she looked _so_ pleased.

“Aw, it’s loopy top Nat,” Steve said cheerfully. “Look at her, she’s punch drunk.”

“Whip drunk,” Sam cackled.

“You’re _all_ punch drunk,” Bucky said. “And some people think there’s no such thing as topspace.”

Clint got a cold beer from under his stool. “Here. I saved that for you.”

 _“Thank_ you,” Natasha said fervently. “God, I could kiss you right now.”

“Well, kiss me,” he laughed. “You got my consent.”

“Beer first,” she mumbled, popping it open like it would safe her life.

“I think,” Sam said with a professional air, “this is the part of the night where we all sit our asses down in a corner and tell each other dirty stories and stop moving for at _least_ three hours.”

*

As the crowd receded and people started to leave the dungeon, a few more people trickled into the bar and ended up joining their little circle—first Nakia, then Carol and her wife Maria, then Okoye, then the giant drag queen whose name Clint never quite managed to catch no matter how many times people said it, and even Scott when the night stretched to an end and the number of his customers dwindled to nothing. Clint expected everyone to start drinking more seriously now that there was no more play in sight, but Bucky had been right—they were all _already_ more or less drunk, even Carol who kept giggling into Maria’s shoulder. Even Clint, really. He had nursed no more than three beers by the time Okoye got to her feet.

“All right,” she said. “It’s time.”

“Boo,” Nakia laughed, but pushed to her feet as well. “She’s right. Day crew’s coming to clean up our mess. Let’s go, let’s go.”

They all protested and laughed and moaned, but eventually all got to their feet and walked out of the room. Clint had Sam’s arm over his shoulders and Bucky’s arm around his waist. He was feeling dazed—he hadn’t pulled an all-nighter in a while, and squinted when the elevator brought them back to the first floor in full daylight.

“Jesus. What time izzit?” He had turned off his phone and disentangled himself from his friends so he could bring it back to life. “Man, only 6am.”

Around them, everyone was saying bye to each other—Carol in a very animated conversation with Steve, Bucky and the drag queen laughing together, Sam shaking his head at something Scott had said. They had all their phones out, too, exchanging numbers. Natasha slipped her hand into Clint’s back pocket and pecked him on the lips. She wasn’t as loopy anymore, but she was still smiling. “Did you have a good time?”

Clint grinned back. “A great time.”

“Thanks for saving me a real beer for when I came back down. You have no _idea_ how much I wanted one.”

“Aw, it’s nothing,” Clint smiled, putting his arm around her waist as they walked back to the car. “I just know what you like.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this concludes my "real-life BDSM" series, which is of course not _completely_ faithful to real life, but then who could expect fiction to be? :D I hope you had at least as much fun reading as I had writing this. It felt important to me, as a conclusion, to show the kinkiest event possible - dungeon night - through the eyes of a completely vanilla person.  
> I don't think I'll add to this series anymore, at least for now; but I'll never stop writing kink, so feel free to subscribe or browse my other works if you want more. ^^ And again, thank you so much for reading!


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